


Terpsichore

by LordessMeep



Series: Terpsichore [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Not Sure if Counts as Praise Kink), Allusions to Casual Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Iwaizumi Hajime, Clubbing, F/M, I Watched WAY Too Much K-Pop for This, Iwaizumi Hajime-centric, M/M, Medical Student Iwaizumi Hajime, Porn with Feelings, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru, So many emotions, University, Warning: Kuroo Tetsurou, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9224990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordessMeep/pseuds/LordessMeep
Summary: Noun: Terpsichore (turp’si-ku-ree) Taking a series of rhythmical steps (and movements) in time to musicThey’d ended up going to different universities, Tooru and he. The distance was good for them. The confession Hajime dropped in both their laps wasn’t.That’s how it’d ended – a lifetime of friendship crumbled to dust in the space of five minutes.(Or, a lesson in learning to move on from things you can't have, in finding old loves in new ways and in understanding that life is never truly simple... till it is.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Blanket warning for wordy sentences and mangled characterization. Also, possible factual errors may be present - Google can only help so much.
> 
> Please note that Haikyuu is presumed to take place in the year 2013 ([taken from this tumblr post](https://www.google.co.in/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiI-vL73q_RAhWLOo8KHV9UCp4QFggZMAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fhawling.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F110480546726%2Fhaikyuu-timeline-2013&usg=AFQjCNGnlUPlsGv4WIWGfaYMmsFf-vjsgg&sig2=VrYS9e2jwBrXbjktTmZ6iw)) and the timeline of this fic has been constructed keeping that in mind.

*

It's one of those unexpected things about a person, things you'd never associate with them because they don't suit them. Things like tattooed, angry looking men having a soft spot for kittens or drop dead gorgeous women having a taste for the ugliest clothing.

Hajime knows that he's been called brutish and brash for the way he looks, with his expression forever annoyed and anger stewing just beneath the surface. At twenty-three, he has grown into his face - baby fat shed off entirely to give way to sharp curves of the jaw and cheekbones, something that several of his bed partners have called dangerously handsome. His hair though, he'd begun wearing it shorter in the back than before, probably the only major change he's made so far.

He smiles at the bartender, signaling for a third shot, his feet already restlessly tapping to the beat of the music.

Hajime loves dancing.

It's one of those things that people don't know about him, one of those things that he almost always misses out on telling people about. He always has, even as a child, making his way through clumsy movements of the feet and finding the joy in the motion. Then, volleyball came along and Hajime traded one activity for the other, but he never forgot, only let it dull.

He takes a sip of his drink and turns back to lean against the bar, watching the crowds of people move together like the wave. He wants to join them, he really does, which is why he throws back his shot – screw drinking responsibly – and relishes the burn of the alcohol as it goes down.

He catches the back of Takahiro’s shirt and motions to the dance floor. “Don’t wait up!” he yells.

“I have no idea what you just said!” Takahiro yells back, “Dancing?”

Hajime nods and grins. He raises a hand in farewell and walks away to become one with the human sea, shoulders already moving to the thumping beat.

He slices through the crowds, his movements becoming more purposeful and his smile growing wider and happier as he finally carves a place for himself. It’s instinctive, the way his hands twirl by his sides, how his arms brush over his clothes as he raises them over his head and how his hips follow the beat with slow rolls. It’s borne of practice, weeks upon months upon _years_ ; sort of like volleyball.

Sometimes, Hajime wonders if he can still hit a spike as automatically as he could back in high school. Other times, Hajime _knows_ that he could.

(It’s not like he knows for sure though, given that he hasn’t stepped into a volleyball court since the day they’d graduated from Aoba Jousai.)

He slides a little to the left, one foot crossing over the other as he executes a perfectly tight spin. His head jerks in perfect symphony with his hips as he undulates on the balls of his feet, and he earns appreciative smiles from a couple of girls and an interested look from one guy, who quickly looks away when Hajime smiles back.

It’s not like he cares to make it into a performance and he’s certainly not looking to impress anyone. Hajime’s body is not his own – it’s been given up to the music; a sacrifice he gladly makes, given that dance had saved him at one of the lowest points of his life.

Well, dance and one Shimizu Kiyoko.

*

They’d ended up going to different universities, Tooru and he. The distance was good for them. The confession Hajime dropped in both their laps wasn’t.

In hindsight, Hajime should’ve been less surprised to have fallen in love with someone like Oikawa Tooru – it was inevitable, after all. The sun rose in the east, the sky was blue and Iwaizumi Hajime was head over heels for Oikawa Tooru. It was never going to go any other way – Hajime has made his peace with the fact.

He just wishes fate had never sent Tooru his way in the first place.

He remembers it with a startling clarity – they’d been walking home for the very last time, Tooru still riding the high of getting into Chuo, of all places. Hajime had watched him against the setting sun, so strikingly, carelessly handsome was he, and his ruminations of the year past had come to a forefront.

He’d known that Tooru wasn’t interested in boys. Girls, yes, but Tooru had never been one to hold down a girlfriend – he’s too focused on the big picture for something as petty as a relationship. That’s how he works – he’s calculating, ruthless, always reaching up, up, up to the next goal; always flying too fucking high for plebeians like Hajime to touch.

Oikawa Tooru was meant to touch the stars and Hajime had to let him go.

That’s what he’d done – they reached Tooru’s house, Tooru had turned around and smiled and Hajime had steeled himself and told him the secrets of his heart with three simple words.

Tooru’s face, Hajime has been able to read it even when he puts on his silly little masks, and this time was no different. The way he’d worked his mouth, the way his eyes had just stared at him blankly, Hajime didn’t need him to say anything else.

“Okay, I understand,” he’d nodded, holding his head high, even as his heart cracked and shattered, “I’ll be going to Tohokudai, by the way. Best of luck for everything, Oikawa.”

With that, Hajime had walked away and his best friend of forever, the love of his life, his stars and his moon… he hadn’t even tried to stop him.

The only good thing that came out of it was that Hajime had managed to go through the difficult conversation about his bisexuality with his mother _and_ tell her that he was going to accept the offer from Tokyo Medical University instead.

That’s how it’d ended – a lifetime of friendship crumbled to dust in the space of five minutes.

To Hajime’s credit, he tried keeping in touch, as painful as it was. It was just that Tooru never replied back, never took his calls or was, inexplicably, never at home when Hajime went over. Where Hajime would’ve pulled the slack, swallowed his pride and told Tooru he’d won, this time he let go, all for the sake of his heart that was being pulled apart, fiber by fiber.

*

(And Tooru hadn’t remembered their promise after all – made at five, pinkies linked, that neither of them would leave each other; that they’d be together forever.

 _How short forever is huh_ , Hajime had thought, after two weeks of being walled out – two weeks of ignored messages, untaken calls, doors shut in his face with an apologetic, _He isn’t home, Hajime-kun_ – before sending his last two words in a text message to Tooru: _I’m sorry._ )

*

The first two months in Tokyo Medical were the loneliest of his life. He kept his head down, sat alone in class, ate his lunch poring over books and spent his weekends in the library. His conversations on the phone were limited to his parents and either Takahiro or Issei, both of whom would try to eke out what was wrong with him. It’s not that Hajime _wanted_ to be a loner… he just didn’t have the energy to make and keep friends. In fact, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

And then came along Introduction to Clinical Medicine and Shimizu Kiyoko, sliding in next to his seat, and quietly asking him if he was the same Iwaizumi Hajime from Aoba Jousai.

*

Here’s what Hajime likes about Kiyoko, aside from her stunning looks – she was smart, she was perceptive and she knew the meaning of measuring her words. It was no surprise when she ended up becoming his first friend at college, and even more anti-climactic was the time when they started dating. They were practically a two-for-one deal by that point, so it came as no big surprise.

She was also the person who reignited his love for dance and he is eternally grateful to her for that.

Here’s how it’d happened – Kiyoko had come into class holding a flyer and then softly slid it towards Hajime.

“I’ll need a partner,” was all she’d said as Hajime had gawked at the flyer. Sugawara had leaned over to look and chuckled while Yaku had just blinked at Kiyoko, half wondering if she was being serious.

“Samba? Are you kidding me?”

“Please,” she’d replied, mouth curving down in the smallest frown and eyes looking at Hajime in a way that he’d come to characterize as pleading. Sugawara clapped his back in commiseration. Yaku just slid away from the three of them, thinking that if he went far enough, he could impress that he didn’t know any of them.

“ _Fine_ ,” Hajime had groused and then prepared himself mentally for the inevitable disappointment.

…Except it wasn’t. Far from it, actually.

The studio was owned by a Brazilian guy – who spoke Portuguese and Hajime’s mother tongue like he was born speaking it – and he’d kissed Kiyoko’s hand as she stepped into the place, much to her chagrin and Hajime’s amusement. Then, their first class was spent with Hajime being one of the three guys in a room full of ladies, all trying to nail their first set of step-ball-changes to a 2/4 rhythm.

That first evening, after two hours of grueling footwork and working his core more than he did in the gym, Hajime remembers stepping out into the cool Tokyo air sore and happy, the kind of high that he used to get after a hard day’s practice. He’d smiled at Kiyoko and she’d looked at him knowingly.

“This might be a good time to tell you that I signed you up for an entire month,” she’d said, leading him to cheap sushi joint, one that had some amazing 100 yen desserts on the conveyor belt, “Happy birthday. Remember to thank Suga and Yaku.”

And that’s how it’d been – they went through four more classes, which bled into another three months of _passo básico, tirade ao lado_ and _giro da dama_ ; inclusive of the individual _samba no pé_ , which Hajime personally loved the most. They eventually learned how to move in sync, though Hajime was better and tended to catch on quicker than Kiyoko could. She was too stiff at times, but she began losing her self-consciousness, though her movements were often economical and basic; nothing like Hajime who gave his all and often flourished when given the chance to – an extra twist of hips here, a little high kick there. Kiyoko often gave him a soft laugh when he looked back to see if she saw.

They didn’t stop dancing when they eventually returned to focus on school fulltime. Often, their study groups ended with Hajime carelessly thumping his books shut and reaching his hand out to Kiyoko, waiting patiently as she piled her books neatly. She’d take it and Suga would bust out the portable speaker Hajime had started carrying around and happily choose the song for the day, bouncing on his feet as Hajime led Kiyoko through the steps.

It wasn’t always Kiyoko though; Suga joined him sometimes, allowing Hajime to take his hand and twirl him through the music and he laughed the whole while, and Hajime didn’t mind it when Suga fumbled through some of the harder steps. When they studied at Suga’s place, Daichi, who was rooming with him, would join in and he was surprisingly flexible, very unlike his rigid, strict demeanor. Yaku proved to be annoyingly good – perfecting Hajime’s footwork after seeing it just once; something about being a huge fan of J-Pop girl bands and their dance routines – with his cute face screwed up in intense concentration as he danced and he pointedly ignored Suga’s, Daichi’s and Kiyoko’s cheers.

Nothing really changed when Kiyoko and he started dating at the start of their winter semester, but Hajime could now end their impromptu dances by pressing a playful kiss to her lips, only to earn a faint blush and a smack to his chest, and hoots from whoever was watching.

But as much as Kiyoko liked dancing, she didn’t _crave_ it; like Hajime did.

Her idea of relaxation was curling up with a good book, preferably with either _jagarico_ or _jagabee_ – her preferences varied from day to day. She used to be an athlete but she wasn’t like Hajime, who’d gone and made an entire sport into his life – a life that he’d now cut out to keep the tattered shreds of himself together, at least until they healed to something that appeared normal.

She didn’t need to move until she couldn’t breathe, until her limbs felt like they would fall off, until she collapsed in bed and fell asleep instantly, dreaming of nothing at all.

Hajime did. Desperately, even.

And that’s exactly what he did; he filled the spaces of his life with his studies, the handful of people he’d come to call friends, his aloof yet comforting girlfriend. Whatever remained was taken up by music – wafting out of his speakers and varying from samba to those ridiculously catchy K-Pop songs – and the movements of his body, as he felt the overhanging tension in him drop away like it’d never existed in the first place.

*

(Not that Hajime ever forgets; he’s always borne burdens far too big after all. Some might tell him to cast it, but he’ll ask you this – what would you do if the burden is your own traitorous heart?)

*

Tokyo is a city of thirteen million, a metropolis that never sleeps. A little over sixty two hundred people occupy each square kilometer. The distance between Chuo and his 1LDK in Kikuicho – where students from Waseda usually put up – is some one and a half hours by the subway. The possibility of finding someone randomly is low, astronomically so.

And, despite all of this, Hajime finds him again at the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym some nine months after being apart – the longest they’ve gone without each other – through no fault of his own.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, given that three out of his four acquaintances used to play at a competitive level and the fourth used to manage at a competitive level. They don’t even _ask_ him; they just tell Kiyoko to take his hand and start leading him over to the seating area, barely giving Hajime time to breathe, or even _read_ the signs posted outside.

“It’s the final, you know,” Suga bursts out, smiling brightly, and Hajime has no idea what he means.

And then he _looks_ and his heart sinks because, what else is it but volleyball, the Inter-Collegiate National Championships?

What’s worse – who else is playing but Chuo and Tsukuba?

Hajime is not a coward, he’s not someone who runs; he’s the kind of guy who stands his ground and fights back. He’s been called reliable, a pillar, his kouhai always rushed to him for advice, for placation, because Hajime was a solid, anchoring presence. But, right then, Hajime had wanted to run out of the building, run back home, where he'd curl into himself with heavy headphones over his ears, the music piping through them loud enough to shut out the rest of the world.

Only, he couldn’t; because running would mean telling his companions about what ailed him.

And the last time Hajime had confided about the secrets of his heart, it had shattered him.

So he sat there, feigning a half-hearted enthusiasm which fooled nobody but they had enough tact not to ask. Only Kiyoko did, with a soft squeeze of his wrist and a questioning look, and Hajime could do no more than grimace back.

Chuo were good, of course. They took the first set by a narrow margin of 25-23 and then went and lost the second by 23-25, because their number 3 messed up his serve and hit the net on Tsukuba’s set point. The third set was too close to call, with both teams closing the gap and equaling the score almost immediately.

And then, with the score tied at 20-20, _he_ walked in.

The whistle blew to pause for a switch in and two players walked off the courts. Almost immediately, he heard sounds of shock and surprise from the spectators at the unprecedented move from Chuo. The substitutes filed in – a tall, bulky number 12 and a slightly shorter number 13.

The stadium was deafening. Yaku was already losing it at the players who’d be subbed in and Suga and Daichi were still laughing shakily at the turn of events.

Hajime couldn’t hear a thing.

The thrumming in his ears was far too loud, his heart beat double-time in his chest and he felt like he was seconds away from passing out. He might as well be deaf to everything else but his haphazard thoughts, crashing around his head like so many out of control vehicles. Because, not only had Tooru been subbed in, the other guy happened to be none other than Ushijima himself.

What followed was nothing but complete annihilation.

Tooru was cocky as he spun the ball in his hands, prepping for a serve. Even way up in the stands, Hajime could recognize his stance, read exactly what was going through his head. It could be best described as riding a bike, the way he still _knew_ Tooru, even from a distance.

He watched him knock out two consecutive service aces – of course he did; this was Oikawa fucking _Tooru_ – and predicted the smug, self-satisfied grin before it even graced his lips. He watched the game and let the sounds of squeaking shoes and thunks of the volleyball surround him and remind him how much he _missed_ being on the court. He watched Ushijima nail Tooru’s sets perfectly, watched him blow through three defenders with sheer force alone, and he remembered _exactly_ how the weight of each hit felt against his palm, so much so that his hands began to tingle over the phantom sensations.

He watched Chuo win, watched Tooru give Ushijima a short pat of acknowledgement and pull away quickly, watched Tooru laugh and smile because victory suited him so, _so_ perfectly.

He’d always worried about Tooru leaving, even when he was young, and there was nothing more crushing to see your worst fears come alive – because, turns out Tooru had needed Hajime less than Hajime had needed him; in more ways than one, even.

Ever since that evening in March, with the cherry blossoms still in full bloom, every single thing Hajime had ever known about himself had been taken and systematically broken down – the only thing one _can_ do when a part of one’s soul has been cut out entirely. He hadn’t touched a volleyball in nine months – the longest he’d gone without playing – and he _couldn’t_ because there was too much of it that was embroiled in Tooru, because Tooru and volleyball were _synonymous_ where Hajime was concerned.

He was still hurting, he realized. He was still in the yearning-wanting- _aching_ kind of love with Tooru, because Tooru had crashed into Hajime’s life when they were still babies and he’d never left; only gone and changed the entire landscape of Hajime’s heart till it was unrecognizable and permanently razed, unfit to house anyone else. No amount of warning would’ve been enough because that’s how Tooru was – unstoppable, unpredictable and unforgettable.

Hajime watched Tooru link his arms with a couple of his teammates and, for the first time, he understood why they named storms after people.

*

It was Kiyoko who shook him out of his trance, with a delicate touch of his shoulders. He didn’t know what kind of face he was making, but he remembers this – Kiyoko’s eyes luminous with concern; Yaku’s eyebrows turned down in dissatisfaction, and Suga and Daichi, both with their eyes wide and mouths slightly open, looking at Hajime like it finally dawned on them _why_ he never wanted to join in on their pickup games despite being fit to play, why he skirted around the subject of his ex-best friend and dodged all questions, why he never dated or showed any interest in anyone till Kiyoko.

Hajime had never been one to wear masks, after all – that was Tooru’s job.

They filed out in silence before parting their ways at the station. Out of habit, Hajime accompanied Kiyoko to her place, ignoring the jittery feeling that had sunk into his bones. Kiyoko didn’t make any small talk – she never did. She was reticent by nature, she preferred to exist in silence and calm – nothing like Tooru who demanded attention and chattered ears off of people.

In fact, Kiyoko and Tooru were diametrically opposite in so many ways, Hajime wondered if he was making some sort of an unconscious statement by dating her.

He watched her as he walked her home, the chasm in his chest yawning and a dark black, drawing him in. There was grief, resting heavy just underneath the surface of his skin, and exhaustion and Hajime desperately wanted to get out of his head.

Instead of saying good night, as she ought to have, Kiyoko invited him inside, made him sit on her couch and asked him what was wrong. Hajime wanted to lie to her, wanted to make up something else, but he couldn’t. All he could do was sit frozen in place, limbs stiff and fingers numb from where he’s been crushing them into fists.

Kiyoko looked at him, calculating, and then leaned in to kiss him.

“Let me help,” she whispered against his lips and Hajime let her, surrendering control and losing himself to sensations.

That it led to him carrying her to bed, unraveling each other with their bodies, was inevitable, what with tensions running high in the aftermath of that night. Hajime repeatedly asked for her consent, because it was a first for the both of them, but she looked up at him with wide eyes, trusting, and he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

(And he should have, he really should have, because Kiyoko was a wonderful person and she deserved someone better than a broken man like Hajime.)

Even as he sunk deep inside of her, watched her arch and moan underneath him, Hajime still reeled with bone-deep sadness, longing for someone who didn’t want him back. He still mourned his loss, still thought about fluffy brown hair, of eyes the color of chocolate and the rare bright and genuine smile that used to be reserved for Hajime and Hajime alone, a smile that used to light up Hajime’s world like nothing else.

Instead of being sleepy and sated in the aftermath of an orgasm, Hajime simply cleaned up both himself and Kiyoko, then held her till she slept. He couldn’t fall asleep himself, his mind was still a whirlwind, still too-clear and working in overdrive, and his heart was heavy.

Eventually, he broke away from Kiyoko and put on his clothes, retreating to her living room and collapsing on the couch. The tears had hit him hard and fast and, before long, Hajime was crying into his hands, shoulders shaking and hiccupping, arms moving to curve around himself, and he thought of Tooru and wanted to hate him for breaking him like this, but he had only managed to hate _himself_ for letting it happen in the first place.

He sat in the darkness, letting out his grief like he had the last time; only right now his mother wasn’t holding him and listening to him cry over Tooru, she wasn’t watching him claw at the jack-knifing heart in his chest, she wasn’t watching him silently wish that he could cut it out and throw it away.

(Heartbreaks hurt worse than physical injuries, after all. How very like Tooru to haunt him like this, psychological over physical.)

He passed out on the couch, exhausted and wrung out, and he dreamt of promises made at five, marveling at the naivety of children and of the adults who thought that they meant something.

*

( _Because, if you’re going to hit something, hit it till it breaks_. _Right, Tooru?_ )

*

They don’t break up the next morning, or even a week after. The cloud hovering over Hajime is a tangible thing that refuses to stop existing. But, it does dissipate little by little over the course of a couple of weeks, till he can pretend that he was okay. He still does what he’s supposed to, he still tries to be good for Kiyoko, but he never quite answers _what_ is wrong with him, not to her, not to Suga or Daichi or Yaku.

He’s always harped about distributing the load, relying on people, and how hypocritical is it to not practice what he preaches?

Hajime coped, not by healthy communication but by distractions. He threw himself into schoolwork with the discipline of a worker ant. He condensed and pushed out his frustrations in the gym or when out running. Where he would’ve spiked an endless number of volleyballs, Hajime danced – a slow contemporary most times. It’s all about stretching his body to the limit, all without the grueling rigidness of ballet, and Hajime loves it.

There’s an amateur dance troupe in his university and they dabbled in a variety of styles from time to time, considering that one of his senpai had a keen interest in choreography. Hajime found that he loved the discipline required, loved the degree of control he needed to create those graceful movements, to the point that it looked practically effortless. He loved how he could cast out his grief in time with the music, let it all flow out.

Hajime has never been particularly poetic; gruff and brash, that’s who he _is_. That’s who he’s always been. He loved the butterfly like delicacy required with contemporary dance, even though most hold the opinion that it’s too effeminate for someone as built as him. Hajime honestly didn’t give a shit, not when he’d found an outlet that just let him be.

*

(He kicks out his leg, lifting it up straight with his big toe pointing outwards, before curving it backwards and following it, spinning with his whole body. His arms stick out from his sides for balance, then round before his chest, fingertips of both hands lightly touching to form a circle as he makes a second spin, then a third. His arms lift straight up above him, as if reaching out, before he drops to the ground in one fluid movement, something like a puppet with cut strings.)

*

When Kiyoko asked for them to break up, she prefaced it with a soft kiss to his lips.

“This is not working out, is it, Hajime?” she said, her mouth curving into the softest, saddest of smiles.

What Hajime remembers is this – the way she’d looked against the plate glass of the tiny French café they were sitting in, her cheery vermilion bobble hat contrasting wildly against the gray of Tokyo and the white of the early January snowfall. She lifted her cup to take another sip of her hot chocolate and Hajime didn’t touch his own shot of espresso, preferring to stare at her, the guilt choking him.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, helpless. What else was there to say? They hadn’t touched each other after their first time and Hajime couldn’t will himself to do otherwise, not when he was still reeling from sadness.

Kiyoko reached out to curve her dainty fingers on his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. Her fingers were cool and smelled like hand cream and faintly of the leather of her gloves.

“I really like you,” she said, “It’s not fair that I have to be second in your heart.”

“I’m sorry,” Hajime repeated, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“It’s okay,” she withdrew her hands, her eyes pinning him under a kind, gentle gaze, “It’s not your fault.”

“I do like you, Kiyoko,” he tried and it was true, “You deserve better. You deserve someone who can give you everything.” _Someone who’s not broken like me_ , Hajime didn’t say.

Kiyoko laughed and it was just a touch watery. “You’re not allowed to make me like you so much, Iwaizumi Hajime.”

They’d finished their drinks and he walked her home, glad that their silence was still comfortable. They _had_ been friends first, close ones even. He loved her – still does, in fact – but he’s not _in_ love with her. When they were at her door, she’d hugged him, told him that she still wanted to be his friend, even if it might be a touch awkward for a while.

He’d fitted his palm at the back of her head and held her close, and inhaled her perfume – a delicate, warm scent of green tea and agarwood, and it fitted her perfectly. She was warm, soft and comforting, and he liked her, and _God_ , he wished it’d worked out between them. But they were nineteen, still children in the grand scheme of things, and Hajime wished that it wasn’t like this.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Hajime exhaled into her hair, “They don’t want me, not the way I want them.”

“No, it really doesn’t,” she replied, “And you can say it, Hajime. I know who he is.”

Hajime froze. She continued, her hand stroking his back softly.

“It was hard to miss, you know. Kageyama-kun told us enough about you two and the way you looked at him at the match…”

“I-” Hajime swallowed, “I tried. I really did. He doesn’t want me, I know that, and I tried to move on and…” he felt the bitterness rise up in the back of his throat, “He doesn’t want me. He… He doesn’t want me.”

Even after years and years of friendship and how cruel is it to find someone _so_ perfect for you, except that you aren’t for them?

Hajime felt the sting of tears and he kept his eyes open till his gaze went watery, but he didn’t let them spill.

“Fuck,” he stepped back after disentangling himself from her, “God, this is not fair to you at all. I’m so, so sorry, Kiyoko.”

Kiyoko bit her lip and her glasses hid her eyes. “It’s really not.”

“I should go.” Hajime stepped back swiping his eyes against the back of his hand.

“You should.” She said, her voice shaky, “See you in class?”

Hajime looked at her. A thousand men fell to their feet for Shimizu Kiyoko while knowing nothing more than her face, and a thousand more would if she let them get closer. And yet, here was he, the outlier, ready to walk away from it.

He exhaled.

“See you in class.”

*

In the break up, Suga went with Kiyoko out of Karasuno loyalty and Yaku was stuck with him. It didn’t take long for them to migrate back together to being friends again, but there was a distance, one that Hajime thought would go away only with the passage of time.

And it did – thank god it did – because Hajime can’t imagine what it’d be like without Kiyoko smiling and laughing at him, without her teasing him for his crap choice in t-shirts, without her sticking her pencil in her mouth when she was deep in thought.

Kiyoko dated other guys but for the most part they left her alone, given that Suga, Daichi and even Yaku were ridiculously protective when it came to her; squaring up like gangsters every time they went to drink at the izakaya near campus. That’s nothing compared to how Hajime looked, given that he’s the tallest of them – a rare event, to be honest – with the naturally angry expression and is also ridiculously ripped.

Kiyoko just smacked him on the chest, laughing lightly when he sized up the guys eyeing her and it’s enough. For this much, Hajime was thankful.

*

His slow-burning love for dance took him to clubs in Shibuya, clad in his tightest jeans and fitted shirts. It wasn’t for the sex. At least, not at first.

Thing is, Hajime became tired of the usual haunts and dancing in his pitiful little apartment, all by himself, was lonely. He chased that feeling, that high he got from moving to energetic music, the sense of contentment.

The first time he went it was with some of his buddies in the dance troupe and he _knew_ that he’d be returning soon, because he found it, that same feeling he used to get after he’d made a successful spike, after he’d seen it go through to the other side. Well, it was unfair to call it _exactly_ the same, because volleyball and dance were incredibly different, but it was something like it and Hajime took it.

Bathed in multicolored lights, bass beating right through his core; and Hajime swung his hips like he was born to do it. This was _his_ and that’s what mattered – this was his and no one else’s.

The second time he came, he was more than content to dissolve into the crowd and dance with any girl who looked even passably interested. Not that Hajime was, even though the offer of impermanence was appealing.

That he broke by his third time was really no surprise because he needed release too, he needed to forget. Medical school was hard as it is and Hajime was smart but not as smart as he needed to be to ace everything without putting in some serious effort. The courses got harder and Hajime started needing to burn the candle at both ends, spending more time with his study group than with his dance troupe. The heady rush of endorphins after a workout was nice but it was not enough. He’s an athletic guy, he needs more than that.

The girl had auburn hair and was tall in her stilettos, tall enough to look into Hajime’s eyes as they ground against each other, dirty and filthy.

She was about college age, perhaps a year or two older than Hajime, and she took him home and called him cute when his hands shook out of inexperience. She rode him, wrung him dry and then laughed when he politely showed himself out after the fact, wiggling her fingers at him and winking at him with a flirtatious little smile.

The next was another girl, then another and Hajime is not particularly picky; they’re young and attractive and they’re not looking for a piece of him. It’s the now they’re content with – the now, with the overloud music that thumps in his chest, the way they move against each other, obscene and uncaring about how their desire for this coupling – sex that was quick and dirty; _meaningless_ – was leaking out into the atmosphere.

It was here that he slept with his first man at twenty and a half, a tall, dark-haired guy with cat-like eyes, with his hair sticking up in a messy bedhead on one side of his head, very akin to a rooster. The hair should’ve been hilarious but then the guy had grinned at him, his smile sharp and coy and he’d given Hajime an appreciative once over, and Hajime had smiled back.

Soon enough, they were tangled together, the man’s large hands gripping onto Hajime’s hips and unsubtly fingering the strip of skin between his shirt and the waistband of his jeans, Hajime’s fingers buried in that deceptively soft hair, eyes locked and bodies moving to the beat. The tension was palpable and darker than what he shared with women, which was good but in a different way. He was taller than Hajime, and he found that he liked that but Hajime was still a touch broader.

“It’s my birthday!” the guy dropped his head to breathe in his ear, “Be my present, ‘kay?”

Hajime laughed at the audacity. “I don’t even know your name!”

His response was to press a kiss below his ear and Hajime shuddered, goosebumps breaking across his skin despite the overheated, stifling atmosphere of the club.

“I’d better make it good then, huh?”

He brushed his lips over Hajime’s cheek, oddly chaste, like he wasn’t half-hard against Hajime’s thigh, like they weren’t pressed together all this time, like they weren’t just chasing release. He drew back and gave Hajime’s face an appraising look, smiling at him absently, and then his gaze dropped to Hajime’s lips and the same smile turned feral. It was only a moment and then the guy was kissing him hard and fast, and it was nothing like what it was like with girls – where they were soft and tended to lead almost hesitantly, the guy just took and took, inciting Hajime into a fight for control.

And Hajime gave it back; he was no shrinking violet when it came to challenges and this guy was challenging him. He pressed the guy closer, one hand bracketing his chin and the other in his hair. He pulled his head back and pressed his jaw just enough to get him to open up and then Hajime was diving in with his tongue, lapping up the taste of strawberry daiquiri – a hilariously incongruous choice of drink – and mapping the inside of his teeth. He lifted one knee, tracing the inside of his thigh, all the way up to his groin and he gave an experimental press to the guy’s hard-on, earning an appreciative groan for his troubles.

He detached himself from Hajime and Hajime was a little proud of the glazed look that’d seeped into his eyes and the way this guy was smiling, content and intrigued.

“Could’ve sworn this was your first time,” he said and Hajime just cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Are you some kind of a stalker or something?” he replied and the guy just laughed, pleased.

“No, not really,” he admitted and then tugged Hajime away from the dance floor and towards the washrooms, “We have friends in common, I believe.”

“And you still won’t tell me your name?” Hajime shot back and let himself be led into a stall at the far end, furthest away from the door.

“You won’t tell me yours either,” he said, pressing Hajime against the closed door and taking his lips again. He was softer, gentler and he tugged lightly on Hajime’s lower lip right as he palmed the front of Hajime’s jeans, kneading softly. Hajime exhaled something that was disturbingly close to a whine. He smiled and leaned closer to brush his nose against Hajime’s, “Call me Tetsurou.”

“Hajime,” he replied and Tetsurou’s lips curved up in a shit-eating grin, the kind he’d seen enough times on Takahiro and Issei’s faces to know that Tetsurou was about to say something bastardly.

“Hajime,” he breathed, rolling his hips against Hajime’s, their tented fronts pressing and sparking a current up Hajime’s spine, and carding his fingers through the back of his head. Hajime sighed and Tetsurou’s fingers opened up, gripping the base of his skull, “Anyone ever tell you that your lips were made for cock sucking?”

He couldn’t help it – he laughed. Tetsurou’s smile softened just a touch at the sound.

“It’s a good thing you’re gorgeous because your compliments are absolute shit.” Hajime said. He still let Tetsurou push him down to his knees because, well, Tetsurou _was_ gorgeous and Hajime was curious.

His eyes were a light hazel, the kind that looked gold in the harsh overhead lights of the washrooms, and they were cocky when Hajime looked up.

“Well?” Tetsurou gave him pointed look and Hajime returned it with a flat look of his own.

“Well?” he parroted back.

“Want to show me if it’s true?” he said and Hajime made a show of being deliberately dense.

“Is what true?”

“Are you going to make me beg, Hajime?” he sounded exasperated and Hajime only grinned at him toothily.

“Hey, you said it.” He tossed back and Tetsurou just rolled his eyes.

“Suck my dick, Hajime,” he said eventually, his voice low and husky and an undercurrent of cockiness that Hajime was beginning to learn was probably a character trait of this guy, “Please put your _pretty_ lips around me.”

Hajime huffed – how on _earth_ were his chapped lips considered pretty? – and then proceeded to torture the insufferably smug Tetsurou with his mouth, just because he fucking could.

To be honest, Hajime hadn’t the first clue as to what he was doing, save for the experiences that he’d garnered with girls, when they got to their knees for him. He minded his teeth and explored with tentative licks, taking care to hit the spots that worked for himself. Sure enough, Tetsurou was responsive, almost hedonistically so, even though Hajime knew that he wasn’t doing the most stellar job of it.

He liked it, he realized, the way he was making Tetsurou come undone above him – the way he was gripping on to Hajime’s hair couldn’t be anything else and Hajime raised his arms and pressed Tetsurou’s hips back to keep him from fucking into Hajime’s throat unintentionally. Tetsurou pushed him back and Hajime’s mouth detached itself from around Tetsurou’s length with a wet pop that was obscene and hotter than it should’ve been.

“Hey, I-I’m gonna-” he broke off when Hajime leaned in to give the head a final teasing suck. He looked up and grinned, knowing that he looked an awful lot like the smug bastard before him.

“Don’t let me stop you.” He sassed and Tetsurou just gave him a dirty look in response. He pulled Hajime to his feet and it took a couple of pulls and Hajime biting into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, then Tetsurou was arching above him, coming all over the bathroom floor and splashing onto Hajime’s sneakers.

“Dude,” Hajime huffed, but Tetsurou just leaned against him, face warm on Hajime’s shoulder.

He hummed. “Five, I’d say. Not bad for a first timer.”

“Did you just rate me,” Hajime deadpanned, but Tetsurou just talked over him.

“Hey, five out of seven _is_ good.” He said, ignoring Hajime’s confused exclamation, because, what kind of a whacked scale is _that_? He pushed Hajime back against the door and sinuously slid to his knees in one swift movement, and it was so unbelievably hot, Hajime completely forgot to consider that Tetsurou had just knelt into his own release.

He deftly undid Hajime’s jeans and coaxed him out of them, whistling when there was no trace of a pair of underwear. Sue him, Hajime worried about the lines, okay? He rubbed his fingers over Hajime’s sharp hip bones and grinned up at him, like everything was working out _exactly_ like he’d wanted to.

“Now relax there, Hajime-kun,” he purred – fucking _purred –_ his breath ghosting over Hajime’s cock and making him shiver despite himself, “And take notes on how a master gets it done.”

*

(And then Hajime found out that, yes, boys indeed gave better head than any girl ever could. Tetsurou wrung his orgasm out of the base of his spine, swallowing him down and Hajime couldn’t help releasing into the back of his throat, his mind whiting out entirely.

Tetsurou wiped the saliva against the back of his hand and got to his feet, his jeans stained at the knees. Hajime just panted because he couldn’t make words even if his life depended on it.

 _Seven out of seven_ , he thought and Tetsurou just grinned at him.

“Best birthday ever,” he said and Hajime couldn’t fault him for being smug because the guy was goddamned good, “See you around then?”

Hajime grunted; all he could do when he couldn’t even feel his knees. Tetsurou leaned in and kissed him, demanding ingress and Hajime let him tangle their tongues together, tasting himself on Tetsurou’s tongue. It _should’ve_ been gross, but Hajime was beginning to learn that that was going to have to wait till his brain wasn’t so pre-occupied with sex.

“It was nice meeting you, Hajime.” He grinned and that’s when Hajime noticed that he’d been put to rights, jeans pulled up and buttoned up. Tetsurou gave his abdomen one last pat and then pushed out of the stall, past Hajime, uncaring of the looks of bewilderment the lone man over by the sinks was giving them.)

*

A month later and three more – a girl and then two guys – drunken hook ups later, Yaku came to Hajime with a raised eyebrow.

“Kuroo?” he said, his voice ringing with the faintest trace of judgment, “ _Really_?”

Hajime turned the page in his book and wrote out a citation for his report. “What?”

“You had sex with Kuroo,” Yaku said, seating himself next to Hajime primly, “Last month.”

“Okay, who the hell is Kuroo?”

Yaku made a noise of exasperation and withdrew his phone, swiping through it. “Tall, hair sticking up like a rooster, insufferably smug?”

If the description wasn’t enough, Yaku turned his phone in Hajime’s face and Hajime was looking at ‘Kuroo’, his arms thrown across a small guy’s shoulders – blond, but his brunet roots were untouched, to the point that he owed a resemblance to pudding – and his other hand dragging Yaku into the frame, the same infuriating grin in place.

“Tetsurou?” Hajime started and Yaku turned his face skyward as if praying for strength.

“You call him Tetsurou,” he breathed, “ _Fuck_.”

Before Hajime can marvel at the fact that Yaku – motherly, never-say-a-bad-word-in-front-of-the-children _Yaku_ – cursed out loud, he’s already gripping at Hajime’s shoulders and telling him to stay far, far away from Kuroo Tetsurou, if he knew what was good for him.

Yaku gave him a quick hug – unprecedented, this entire set of events was, _really_ – and then left just as quickly, leaving a dazed and confused Hajime in his wake.

*

Two days. That’s how long it took for Yaku to crack and then Tetsurou to find him as he, Suga, Yaku and Kiyoko were congregating at their usual coffee shop, books and papers taking up every available surface of the table.

“Ohoho,” he grinned and Yaku groaned and, fuck, Tetsurou _was_ handsome, even more so in the faint afternoon light dripping in through the French windows, “Long time no see, Hajime-kun,”

“Tetsurou,” Hajime replied neutrally, earning a nudge from Kiyoko’s foot and he didn’t even have to look at her to know that she was giving him a questioning look.

Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, Hajime grasped exactly how annoying Tetsurou was, given that he was plastered to his side the entire time and flirting so brashly, Hajime thought that a brick to the face would’ve been more subtle.

Turns out, he was acquainted with the entire table save Hajime, because Tetsurou and Yaku went to the same high school called Nekoma and they used to be close and personal friends with another high school in the area, Fukurodani, and because of Fukurodani’s alliance, they used to train with fucking _Karasuno_. Tetsurou is a middle blocker with his university team at Tokai, same as his best friend Bokuto, the top five, over excitable, ex-Fukurodani Ace and Tetsurou is studying psychology – because of fucking _course_ – and Hajime was only a touch surprised that they hadn’t met earlier.

“We need to fucking _study_ ,” Hajime repeated for the umpteenth time, slapping Tetsurou’s hands away from where they were edging towards Kiyoko. Kiyoko, apparently used to it, was unfazed, but she did smile gratefully at Hajime.

“So you keep saying,” Tetsurou nudged his foot and pressed his calf against Hajime’s. He ducked closer to Hajime, lowering his voice so that his words were limited to Hajime’s ears alone, “You _know_ what I want.”

“What?” Hajime asked, though he knew, but there was something satisfying in making Tetsurou say it out loud.

“Your number and drinks, tonight.”

“No.” Hajime vetoed. No fucking way was he getting trapped here.

“Okay, just the drinks then.” He said, head moving closer to Hajime’s ear. Hajime felt Yaku’s frown from across the table but there was very little Hajime could do. His patience was wearing thin from Tetsurou’s presence.

“One drink.” Hajime bartered and Tetsurou readily agreed, something that should’ve made Hajime suspicious.

“Same place as last time?” he said, drawing away and grinning happily, “Meet you at the bar.”

“Whatever.” Hajime said and ignored the look Kiyoko was giving him over her mug of hot chocolate.

*

(Tetsurou found him at the bar alright. He kept his promise and ordered only a single shot for each of them – a blow job, and Hajime kind of wanted to punch him, but he couldn’t resist the smug look of challenge, the way Tetsurou’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked the alcohol down, a rejoinder to the last time – and then pushed Hajime towards the dance floor.

“Dance for me,” he said into Hajime’s ear, “I’ve heard that you’re pretty fucking good.”

And even though Hajime thought that Tetsurou was easily the worst person he’d met ever since he’d moved to Tokyo, he couldn’t deny that his eyes, piercing and centered on Hajime, and that undivided attention on him was the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

So Hajime went slack, stopped thinking, and just _moved_. If he embellished by lifting his arms, by letting his muscle tee ride up, by running his hands down his abdomen and biting down on his lip… well. Tetsurou wasn’t the only guy who liked to tease.

If he ended up taking Tetsurou home, he blames it entirely on rough way Tetsurou had grabbed him and bitten into his mouth, growling about how he wasn’t allowed to be sex on legs. Hajime just grinned into it and let it happen.)

*

He ran into Tooru’s older sister, Yuzuki, once, the only contact he had with an Oikawa in the years that elapsed between graduation and his twenty-first birthday. It helped that Hajime didn’t go home for holidays as much as he ought to and there was always an excuse to fall back on. There was no way he could stomach running into Tooru anytime soon, that’s for sure.

Yuzuki though, she was different. He liked her a lot and she used to be rather fond of him too. When she saw him at the konbini, picking up some Pocari after a run, she immediately jogged up to him with a wide grin on her face.

It was so close to Tooru’s, he wanted to cover her face and make her stop.

“Hajime, why don’t we see you around anymore?” she accused after their pleasantries were done and she pinched his cheek, “And you’re so close in Tohokudai too…”

Hajime exhaled because apparently his mother had been hiding this from her closest friend too… or maybe Yuzuki trusted Tooru’s word over everything else when it came to Hajime.

“Oh, you know how it is, Nee-san,” he fudged, laughing lightly, _carelessly_ , and he hoped she’d play along, except she didn’t.

(Of course she didn’t; Hajime had practically grown up in front of her. She could tell when he lied.)

“Now would you mind telling me what’s going on with the two of you?” she asked once she’d dragged him out of the store and to the nearest park bench. She stared at him, her eyes wide and luminous and chocolate like Tooru’s, the same eyes that Hajime had forever been weak to, and he could only slide his own shut because he couldn’t bear to look at her any longer.

“I made a mistake,” he exhaled finally, not knowing how else to phrase it, “I apologized for it and… it’s up to him to do what he wants to with it.”

Because, it was Hajime who disrupted the balance, Tooru wasn’t the one at fault. _He_ was the one who couldn’t swallow his feelings and tamp them down. _He_ was the one who could’ve let it all lie, could’ve gone to Tohokudai, could’ve done something with his passion but he chose to let it burn out, chose to scare away Tooru, chose nothing over something.

His feelings were not at fault, but Hajime sure as hell was.

She folded her arms, looking unimpressed. “What could you possibly have done to warrant three years of silence, Hajime? The two of you are best friends, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think we are.” He said, “We’re not friends anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she said, bewildered.

Hajime shrugged and didn’t answer, choosing to walk away entirely.

*

(The same evening, he ran into Kageyama at the train station.

It was so unprecedented, Hajime wondered if it was some sort of synchronized way of the universe fucking with him.

And, just like that, instead of taking his train back to _Tohokudai_ – Kageyama rammed into him, his expression oscillating between angry and betrayed, and he _talked_ and continued talking, his hands gripping onto both of Hajime’s biceps, shaking him.

“You weren’t there!” he repeated, over and over, “Hinata wanted to play alongside you, I wanted to set for you and, and, you aren’t even playing anymore, are you, Iwaizumi-san?”

Hajime swallowed the lump in his throat at it because he knew why, he knew the moment he’d said the cursed words – _I love you, Tooru_ – the moment he’d seen Tooru’s shocked expression, he knew that he couldn’t stand on the courts ever again because every last thing would remind him of Tooru, Tooru, _Tooru_ , even if they were entire prefectures apart.

Kageyama’s normally stoic face had crumpled and he’d just asked _why_ and Hajime couldn’t do much more than say that he was sorry.)

*

Kageyama’s façade never truly left him and it both warmed and saddened Hajime that his kouhai, past and present, apparently thought the world of him.

“Of course they do,” Takahiro barked, smacking the back of his head in a bizarre role-reversal, “I know it for a fact that everyone on the team has had a crush on you at one point or another. Hell, _Kyoutani_ still asks after you every time we meet up with him.”

Hajime choked and Takahiro just grinned, satisfied, but then his expression slowly flattened and dropped to serious. Hajime couldn’t say that he hadn’t expected that – their tight knit group of four had dissolved past graduation and, outside of a couple of messages, he hadn’t spoken to Issei in ages. That Takahiro had bullied him into a meeting was inevitable, considering that Hajime was in town for more than two days at a stretch for once.

“What are you doing, Hajime?” he asked and it wasn’t curious or angry. He sounded tired and drained.

“What do you mean?” Hajime replied, cautious and Takahiro just sighed heavily.

“You know what I mean,” he shifted closer, his eyes boring into Hajime and Hajime carefully looked away, “Something happened between you and Tooru and then you’re suddenly rejecting your scholarship to Tohokudai and going to Tokyo _without_ telling me or Issei. You don’t come home, you don’t even call us and then _Tooru_ won’t talk to us about you either… so, just tell me, Hajime – what the fuck is going on with you?”

Hajime swallowed and his hand was shaking from a sudden bout of nerves. “Nothing.”

“Look at me when you say that,” Takahiro said, reaching out to crush his hand, “At least meet my eyes when you lie to me, you bastard.”

“Makki… _Takahiro_ ,” Hajime gritted his teeth, “I _can’t_. Christ, don’t make me.”

“Stop your fucking martyr complex or whatever the fuck you think you’re trying to do with us, alright?” Takahiro growled and Hajime had never heard him this frustrated before, “Just tell me _what_ happened and then we can fix this and-”

“There is nothing _to_ fix!” Hajime ripped his hand away with a yell and Takahiro just stared at him in shock, “How the fuck do you fix something when there is _nothing left_?!”

Hajime’s chest heaved, tight with emotion and it felt like there was a band around his lungs that made it inherently difficult to breathe. Takahiro kept looking at him, bewildered, before he blinked and reached out for Hajime’s shoulders.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Hajime tried to curl into himself but Takahiro’s grip was strong and true. He watched him with a furrowed brow, his expression so grave, Hajime would’ve laughed at how foreign it looked on the usually lackadaisical Takahiro.

“Hajime, I swear to _God_ ,” Takahiro said warningly, but he sounded more scared than angry and that’s what made Hajime exhale in a shudder.

“I’m in love with him.” he said, shutting his eyes and tensing his jaw to keep his emotions from bubbling out more than they had to, “And I told him that and he decided that it meant that we couldn’t even be friends anymore. He stopped taking my calls, my messages and he refused to meet with me and, and I…”

Next thing Hajime knew, Takahiro was rocking him back and forth and Hajime was crying, hiccupping into Takahiro’s shirt because Tooru had taken something from him so viciously, it hadn’t healed. Even after three years it was like an open wound and he _ached_ and, _fuck_ , it was all Hajime’s fault for opening that can of worms. Of course Tooru was going to react like that – he was volatile at best when it came to his feelings – but a tiny part of Hajime had hoped that Tooru would’ve at least fought to keep him in some capacity.

“Fuck,” Takahiro combed his fingers through the back of Hajime’s head, “ _Fuck_. I’m so sorry, Hajime.”

He held him till his eyes ran dry and his body felt heavy and exhausted from the tears. Takahiro led him into his room and pushed him into his spare futon, tucking him in. He bracketed Hajime’s face with his hands and forced him to look up into his face through watery, tired eyes.

“You’ve always been our rock, one way or another,” he said, voice pointed and steeped with meaning, “Let us be _yours_ , okay? Don’t shut us out like that, Hajime, never again.”

Hajime nodded weakly – his head felt tender and too heavy for his neck – and slipped into sleep far too quickly, relieved and comforted by Takahiro’s words.

*

(And they _were_ – Hajime couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to always take their words at face value. It wasn’t ideal, given the distance, but both Takahiro and Issei managed to defy it by relentlessly pushing themselves into his life with endless messages on LINE, crafted with utmost care to specifically rile up Hajime and Hajime, stupidly, loved them for it.)

*

He punched Tetsurou in his smug face exactly once.

Of the many things he’d learned about Tetsurou, the fact that Tetsurou never learned how to leave well enough alone was the worst of them. Sure it could be helpful when he took it in his head to leave Hajime hanging just over the edge of orgasm for a mind-blowing thirty-five minutes, but most other times it was just annoying.

He and Tetsurou never actually date because Tetsurou was thoroughly incapable of being monogamous or in a reasonably sane relationship, and, when sober and in sound mind, he pissed off Hajime something bad. The sex was good when they deigned to have it, but it wasn’t worth it to deal with the rest of Tetsurou’s horrible personality.

Thing was, Tetsurou liked to needle. It wasn’t the caring way that Suga and Yaku did, no, Tetsurou did it to garner a reaction, to provoke an individual. He did it to hit people where it hurt, because he liked to push, he liked to break things, he liked to pour fuel into fire and to watch everything burn. He did it because he fucking _could_.

They were twenty-two and Tetsurou had wedged himself into Hajime’s side as he was sitting in a family restaurant with Yaku, both of them trying to finish up their reports on the last of the organ-specific courses they had to cover. Hajime was already fretting over the introduction to clinical training class they were partway through, and he was learning that his bedside manner was going to be absolute shit, nothing like how natural Suga and Yaku were and Kiyoko simply had to smile and she’d light up the world of anyone looking.

Point was, Hajime was stressed and Tetsurou knew that. He purposely shoved himself into Hajime’s personal space, trying to rile him up. Yaku hissed at him and it would work, but only for a couple of minutes. Hajime tried to bask in the blessed silence but then Tetsurou would distract him with a hand on his thigh or by nosing the shell of his ear, blowing a puff of hot air at him.

Hajime knew what this was – a slow seduction, all so that he could have Hajime beneath him (or over him, Tetsurou wasn’t picky), all so that he had the opportunity to remind Hajime that he couldn’t resist him after all. Hajime pushed him away, but Tetsurou was relentless, more so than usual.

“You want to tell us _why_ you’re being this clingy with Iwaizumi here?” Yaku asked, looking at Tetsurou pointedly from around his laptop.

“Aww, is this how you treat your dejected friends, Yakkun?” Tetsurou batted his eyes at Yaku and Yaku looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.

“Please,” Hajime said over his furious typing, “You can’t fool either of us into thinking that you can feel emotions like a normal person.”

“Cruel as ever, Hajime-kun,” Tetsurou purred and turned his full attention back to Hajime. Hajime didn’t even have to look at him to know the way his eyes were glinting with mirth, the way he was calculating the exact words he needed to say to incite the spark of anger that was always right beneath Hajime’s skin.

“That makes you a masochist then, doesn’t it?” Hajime parried out of habit, his full attention on the last few conclusive lines of his report, “Considering that you _still_ keep coming back.”

“Aren’t you even going to ask _why_ I’m so sad?” Tetsurou wheedled and he was probably pouting, damn him.

“Did Michimiya dump you because you kept getting on her nerves?” Hajime said flatly, “Because she put up with your shit for _way_ too long.”

“You know exactly why she stayed,” Tetsurou replied, voice an octave lower and Hajime wrinkled his nose in irritation, “Rather intimately too.”

“Yeah, and let me tell you _again_ ,” Hajime finally looked away to glare at him and the dirty grin on his face, “Your dick is _not_ magic.”

“You’re _such_ a liar.” Tetsurou huffed, low and husky.

“Wow, yeah,” Yaku interjected, giving Hajime the full force of his disappointed expression, “Let’s not forget the fact that you two are in _public_ right now. Kuroo, for the sake of my sanity, stop provoking Iwaizumi, _please_.”

Tetsurou hummed and moved away from Hajime, sitting an entire foot away, a first for him. Hajime smiled at Yaku in thanks and Yaku simply waved him away.

There was the sound of keys clacking for several long minutes before Tetsurou spoke.

“I didn’t make the National squad for Worlds 2018,” he said and his voice was carefully neutral. Yaku and Hajime met each other’s eyes over their laptops, exchanging a confused glance.

“Oh,” Yaku exhaled, but he didn’t say anything more because Tetsurou was already turning to Hajime, his elbow perched on the table and chin resting on the palm, right next to his drained café latte.

“Bokuto made it though, thank god,” he smiled, genuine – he had a soft spot for his teammate at Tokai and apparent brother in arms – before it flickered and turned scheming. Hajime took it as his cue to turn away and finish up the penultimate paragraph of his report. Tetsurou didn’t slide closer to him but his voice lowered, as if imparting a secret, “You know who _else_ made it?”

“I’m sure you’ll do the honor of telling me,” Hajime said dryly and Tetsurou wasn’t fazed.

“You might remember him,” he continued and something in the tone of his voice stilled Yaku’s fingers, but Hajime still typed away, “He made the under-21 team on recommendation after the Inter-Collegiate Nationals that were held in our first year.”

Hajime was half-listening, fully knowing a bald provocation from Tetsurou when he heard it. Yaku shifted opposite him, but he didn’t say anything.

Tetsurou was smarmy. “He was chosen as the starting setter for the National team yesterday. The coach says that he might even be named the captain in a couple of years, given his work ethic and his drive to please.”

“ _Kuroo_ ,” Yaku hissed warningly. Hajime’s typing speed had slowed but he hadn’t stopped. He was right there, about to finish his progress, but Tetsurou had never known how to leave well enough alone now, had he?

“I _have_ wondered why you don’t talk about him at all,” he said and Hajime felt a reflexive jerk in his arm from keeping himself from putting his hands on Tetsurou’s mouth and making him shut _up_ because he knew exactly where this guy was going, and nothing was going to stop him.

“Kuroo, _seriously_ ,” Yaku said and from the sound of his voice, Hajime knew that even Yaku knew that Tetsurou wasn’t going to stop.

“He’s supposed to be your best friend from what I’ve heard,” he drawled, relishing it, and there was that smug, cat-like grin in his voice, “That Oikawa Tooru.”

His fingers stilled over the keyboard. Yaku inhaled sharply from opposite him. Ever since that day in December, three years ago, Tooru’s name was an unspoken taboo amongst his friends in Tokyo. No one talked about him, not in front of Hajime at least, and he was glad for it, because Tooru was hard to talk about and Hajime wasn’t going to be entirely rational about it anyway.

Tetsurou jumped in his seat, gleeful; he’d practically made it a career out of getting under people’s skin. In the couple of years that they’d known each other, Hajime had ignored Tetsurou’s goading entirely, preferring to never react visibly. It was a different matter when Tetsurou pushed and prodded him when he wanted a meaningless fuck, one that Hajime obliged with shamefully often.

Right then, Hajime knew that it wasn’t about sex. Tetsurou was getting personal and this, _this_ was where he hated this guy because Hajime didn’t need to be psychoanalyzed by him.

“A pair of baby crows told me that you two used to be in _perfect sync_ on the court,” Tetsurou said and this time he leaned forward. Hajime’s fingers dropped flat on the keys. Yaku slowly closed the lid of his laptop and Tetsurou nudged Hajime’s foot under the table, “You both were apparently kings of the court because of your ‘perfect trust’. Didn’t serve you much against Ushiwaka though, did it?”

Hajime tried to tune out Tetsurou, he really did, but all he managed was to stare at the steadily blinking cursor on his screen, sitting at the tail end of an unfinished sentence. His mind was completely void of thought; all Hajime was aware of was the pulse of a vein right at his temple.

“Or Kageyama and Hinata for that matter,” Tetsurou said and Hajime was hyper-aware of his gaze, taking in Hajime’s rigid posture, “You just weren’t good enough, were you, Hajime?”

“Kuroo, stop it.” Yaku growled and Hajime appreciated the effort, but when had Tetsurou ever listened to directions?

“And now you have been replaced by a better model,” he enunciated carefully, “Do you know how well Ushiwaka and he work on the court right now? It’s half the reason why Oikawa is on the team now; they can’t work without both of them.”

Hajime hadn’t known that. Hell, Hajime hadn’t known _any_ of that – he didn’t follow Tooru’s progress towards the top of the world; it still hurt too much – and he knew that the way he drew himself even tighter would be hard to miss.

Tetsurou was delighted. “This is why you don’t play anymore, isn’t it? This is why you pretend that none of us used to play at a National level, that all of us _love_ the game, that we’ll still pick it up given half the chance?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hajime hissed and Tetsurou’s excitement was so palpable, it radiated off of him from where he was seated beside Hajime.

“Face it, you righteous bastard,” he said, “You weren’t good enough.”

“Shut _up_.” Hajime’s voice was low, with the barest hint of anger as his hands curled up into fists on the keyboard.

Tetsurou leaned right into his ear and he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word.

“You weren’t good enough, so he chose someone _better_.”

Hajime wrenched back his right hand and let go.

It happened so fast – one moment Tetsurou was huffing a satiated laugh in his ear and the next he was nursing a bruise on his cheek and Hajime was gripping the front of his shirt, despite the split knuckles. He forgot that they were sitting in the middle of a family restaurant, that he’d punched Kuroo fucking Tetsurou in broad daylight and in front of Yaku – _Yaku_ , of all people. The only thing that was crystal clear was the anger rushing through his veins, but… it wasn’t like Tetsurou was entirely wrong.

It wasn’t like Hajime hadn’t thought all of this and more in darker times. Of course it hurt – Tooru’s ace turned out to be Ushijima Wakatoshi, the one guy they’d both sworn to surpass but never could because Hajime _wasn’t good enough._ And that’s not even counting the fact that Tooru had rejected him as a person too; as if being rejected as a volleyball player hadn’t been bad enough.

It _hurt_ and Hajime couldn’t hide it, despite the fact that Tetsurou looked so fucking happy that he’d made Hajime crack.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Hajime growled in Tetsurou’s face. He didn’t miss a beat before answering.

“Then maybe I should start learning.” He said and that’s when Hajime noticed that he wasn’t smiling.

He was serious.

Hajime let out a sharp bark of laughter. Like hell was he giving anyone that much ammunition again and certainly not someone like Tetsurou, who’d use it for entertaining himself. Fuck, he couldn’t even stand the guy half the time.

“Fuck you,” Hajime spat, pushing Tetsurou away from him and he hurriedly gathered up his things, slapping a couple of notes on the table to cover his share of their lunch, “Never in a million years, Tetsurou. How stupid do you think I am?”

He turned and left, uncaring of the scene he’d walked away from or of his bleeding knuckles. He didn’t care that blood was staining the cover of the book he was holding. All of his awareness was focused on a white-hot point of fury in his chest, one that would soon burn out and leave only painful truths behind.

Fuck Tetsurou and his bullshit.

*

(Tetsurou apologized a week later, possibly the most genuine thing he’d seen from the guy in all the time they’d known each other. But, well, the damage had been done and a wall had been erected. They were still reluctant acquaintances but at least Tetsurou stopped overstepping his boundaries, as vague and ill-defined as those lines were.

They fucked twice after the fact – once blind, stumbling drunk and the other the next morning, completely sober. It was easily the worst decision Hajime had made, so they mutually agreed never to repeat it, given that it wasn’t a joke anymore.

Tetsurou never took anything seriously, so it’s no surprise that he dove head-first into the hedonism of having a new body in his bed every night and a new story behind his face at every club. Tetsurou wasn’t one to hold onto whims after they’d passed and Hajime was relieved that he’d been exactly that – a whim. He wasn’t sure he could’ve handled being wanted by someone like that.)

*

Tokyo is a city of thirteen million, a metropolis that never sleeps. A little over sixty two hundred people occupy each square kilometer. The distance between the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym and the JR Tokyo General Hospital – where students from Tokyo Med sometimes opt to take up their hands-on clinical training, starting in their fifth year of school – is a bare seven minutes by public transport. The possibility of finding a specific someone under your care is low, astronomically so.

And, despite all of this, Hajime finds him again at in the department of Musculoskeletal Sciences some five years after being apart – the longest they’ve gone without each other – through no fault of his own.

Something clenches in Hajime’s chest as his eyes trace the familiar form – the ski-slope bridge of nose peppered with freckles as they ought to do in the summer, the sharp cheekbones, the expanse of lean muscles – gained over the intervening years – showing through the thin T-shirt and cargo shorts, the knee brace firmly fixed over the right and still favoring the left when stepping forward. He notes that his fringe in nearly in his eyes now, having grown too long, and his hair is longer in the back too, but just slightly.

The warm chocolate of his eyes, lined with too long eyelashes, catch Hajime’s gaze and hold it. A slow smile spreads across his face once he notices he has Hajime helpless and pinned under the weight of his stare.

“Found you, Iwa-chan,” Tooru grins, bright and happy, and it’s like no time has elapsed at all.

*

That they crash back together with far too much ease comes as a surprise to Hajime, especially since he’d been expecting himself to be far too angry, far too heart-broken to even _look_ at Tooru after everything.

Then again, he’s always been weak to Tooru and his charming little smiles, so it’s no surprise that his first instinct on seeing him is to forget all about the silence that had stretched between them for half a decade, and to smack the back of his head with the clipboard in his hand and say, “Are you fucking kidding me right now? What the fuck did you do to your knee this time?”

Tooru just whines and pouts at him with a soft little, “Mean, Iwa-chan,” and Hajime finds himself laughing – because he honestly thought he’d never get to hear that again. And then, the next thing he knows, Tooru is in his arms, fingers digging into the back of Hajime’s lab coat, a litany of _Iwa-chan_ s are spilling from his lips in a watery voice, and Hajime is crying too.

The world feels a little brighter, he thinks, after he waves Tooru away once he’s done with his monthly checkup – or so he insists, but Hajime doesn’t believe him completely – and Tooru’s new phone number is burning a hole in his pocket. Even his supervisor, a distinguished lady in her mid-50s, notes that he looks happy and says so with an amused smile on her face.

It doesn’t strike him as problematic until a month later, when he realizes that Tooru had fit back into his life so seamlessly, he’d started finding milk bread and Tooru’s favorite ice cream in his pantry when there wasn’t supposed to be any.

 _What are you doing_ , he asks himself the next month, when he’s lying awake in bed at three in the morning, reading over the messages Tooru has been sending him and realizing that not a single one of them had been an apology.

 _What are **we** doing_ , he thinks in the month after, when they’re getting drunk on cheap beer after a physiotherapy session and laughing over some shitty alien movie Tooru has picked out. Tooru turns to face him just as he turns too, and then, he fits his hand over Hajime’s and holds his gaze in a way that makes Hajime’s heart stop, stutter, and there’s a glance, downwards, at Hajime’s mouth – quick, but Hajime doesn’t miss it – and…

…and he’s never been happier to see a call from Tetsurou before.

*

Recklessness is a very Tooru trait; Hajime is the steady one, the one who pulls everyone back on track, the one who is level-headed and rational. He hates unresolved tension, thinks it’s pointless to whine and cry over something that can be discussed upfront, without the drama and manipulation.

And yet, he’s the one who’s refusing to bring up the gap, the silence, his hurt and heartbreak; the five years they spent growing up without one another. He’s the one who’s refusing to call out Tooru on his bullshit, lest he lose him again.

As he runs away from Tooru’s apartment, his hand still tingling from Tooru’s touch, he wonders when he became such a coward.

*

(Some two days later and Hajime is replying to Tooru’s messages with either single words or simple kaomojis, Ushijima finds him in the hospital during his lunch break. He opens with pleasantries and asks after Tooru’s progress, listens carefully even as Hajime relays all he knows about Tooru’s case as professionally as he can and Hajime tries not to appear horribly jealous.

Ushijima nods and thanks him for his time and, just as he gets up to leave, he pauses and looks at Hajime. “Glad you’re back. You are good for him.”

In the years that had passed, Hajime had forgotten that Ushijima rarely did things with ulterior motives and that he was honest to the point of being tactless. Hajime curls his hands into fists.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he growls and Ushijima looks baffled by the question.

“Exactly what I said.” He replies and Hajime should be less surprised that the answer makes no sense.

“Why the fuck did you even _come_ here?” Hajime shoots back, his anger and frustration at the entire situation at an all-time high. Ushijima blinks.

“It’s only natural to want to check up on my partner’s progress,” he answers patiently and Hajime wants to punch him in the face, even though he’s technically saying nothing wrong.

“ _Partner_ ,” Hajime spits the word and, god, the innuendo in it makes him want to drown.

“On the court, yes.” Ushijima nods reasonably, “Not like you, of course.”

This time, Hajime goes quiet, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open. Before he can ask or even deny, Ushijima nods and leaves, unaware of the door he’d thrown open to invite a myriad of thoughts into Hajime’s brain.)

*

On the dance floor, with all these anonymous bodies, Hajime is less of a coward.

He isn’t thinking about the worried look on Takahiro’s face. He’s not thinking about the speech Issei had given him near the bar when he’d walked in with Tooru, the man of the hour; about how he had grasped his wrist and told him to be careful and to think about what he’s doing. And he is _especially_ not thinking about the way Tooru had looked at him when Hajime had spread his legs, bent low on his knees and gyrated his hips purposefully and it had earned hoots from the group of girls near him – how he’d pulled on his lower lip with his teeth and met Hajime’s eyes with a fire that was solely reserved for the court.

He is not thinking, period; he’s doing his usual routine on the floor – dancing with everyone and no one, losing himself to the heavy beat and forgetting all that existed outside of it.

He honestly doesn’t care to put on a show but there’s a rapt audience anyway and the group of girls – Hajime counts four of them, all dressed in their Friday night best; short skirts, shorter shorts – parts and a particularly brave faux blonde invites him in with a crook of her finger and a disarming smile. Hajime grins back lazily and joins them, taking care to respect the personal space of the girls on either side of him.

This is how he likes it though – it’s not about taking someone home, about dance being a means to an end; it’s more fun when it’s just about how he moves to the music.

He alternates between quick movements and slow, teasing rolls of his body, dropping down to his knees at one point and rolling back up so quickly, his head spins. The girls hoot and he smiles back and hoots himself when one of them does a perfect imitation of his move, except with a certain feminine grace to it.

He spreads his legs at shoulder width and pops his hips, the movement starting at the flat of his feet and flowing all the way to his shoulders, his head dropping back loosely, and then changes it to rolls, his arms matching the flow. He swivels his hips in time with the music and his shoulders follow the motion, his legs splayed and weight supported on the balls of his feet, his arms rising up, wrists turned outwards.

The damning move earns a whistle and excited laughter at the audacity – he cards the fingers of one hand through his hair and the other moves downwards to fist the hem of his shirt, his torso undulating sinuously. He’s especially proud of this one, considering how many times it’d earned him a slack-jawed stare that was so goddamned _satisfying_ in its hunger.

He knows exactly what he looks like – like he’s something to be desired. Like he’s confident and unafraid and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Like sex on legs, to borrow a phrase from Tetsurou.

A smirk flashes on his lips, unbidden, when he breaks his eyes away from his circle and spots people watching him, interest blatantly displayed on their faces. This, the rush of it, leaves him heady and breathless, makes his smirk broaden and fulfillment thrum in his chest.

Suddenly, there is an arm around his midsection, wrapped tight and it’s familiar like a muscle memory, and Hajime would be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped for it to come to this.

He goes with the insistent pull and waves his farewell to his companions and grins, receiving smiles, waggled fingers and one blown kiss in his direction. He laughs, pretends to catch the kiss and presses his curled fist to his lips. The girls laugh too and Hajime sighs, a touch happy.

On some level, he wonders at the role reversal. He thinks back when he used to be the one pulling away, not the one being pulled away, and he can still drum up the jealousy, black and searing, if he tries hard enough.

They dissolve in the crowd and Hajime follows with backward steps; the movements of his shoulders to music are almost involuntary. They come to a halt in a darker corner, the neon lights passing over faces less frequently, lesser to see here and easier to pretend.

“When did you learn to move like _that_?” Tooru growls into his ear, his breath hot against the shell of Hajime’s ear.

In answer, Hajime swivels his hips exactly once – slow, subtle, and calculated; executed with just the balls of his feet and his arms sit loosely on either side of him. It’s controlled and shallow, careful to avoid touch, even though the temptation to press himself flush against the body behind him is too much.

He tilts his head back the slightest degree, his voice leaving him in a sigh. “Like what?”

Tooru’s lips brush his ear when they bite down on a breathless _fuck_ and Hajime chuckles.

“Are you gonna dance?” he says eventually, “Or do you just want to stand there?”

Tooru recognizes the challenge in his words, always has. He doesn’t back down – his arm slides away till his entire palm, splayed fingers and all, is resting insistently on Hajime’s abdomen, fingers curling slightly when he presses back Hajime against his front.

And then Hajime moves to the pulse of the music, his head falling forward, his fingers finding purchase in the belt loops of his jeans, swinging his body in an easy rhythm, and Tooru moves with him, unresisting.

A small part of him, the one that is still lonely and curled up in hurt, silently begs for Tooru to not take this away from him, the dance, his sanctuary from the darkness of his mind. Its voice is drowned out by the rest of him, the one that is drunk on three neat shots of vodka and exists in the perfect space between lucid and drunk – lucid enough to realize what’s happening and drunk enough to not care.

Tooru’s hands move, their touch light and fleeting. Hajime is almost thrown back into the past – walking side by side with shoulders touching, fingers brushing when handing each other bottles of water, the weight of a palm resting lightly on the back of a sweaty neck – and it’s amazing the way it still sends a shock up his spine, the way it burns into his skin like a lit match to oil.

His hands – those beautiful, long fingers with perfect, neatly filed fingernails and capable of the delicate push to set a ball _and_ of slamming it across the court at a hundred kilometers per hour – trail down Hajime’s body, the touch raising goosebumps, even through the fabric of his shirt. His left comes back to its initial position on Hajime’s abdomen, but the right ventures lower, pausing at the waistband of his jeans to run a thumb over the sliver of skin peeking through. Hajime’s breath hitches and his eyes slide shut involuntarily and Tooru’s hand goes lower, coming to rest on the top of a thigh, thumb resting comfortably in the dip where the leg flared out from the hip.

Tooru head drops to press into the back of Hajime’s neck, lips lightly brushing against the soft hair at his nape. It happens again, but with greater pressure, a light scrape of teeth that makes him lose his breath with the hesitance of it. Tooru bites the next time, harder, and Hajime lets a noise be ripped out of his throat and exhales weakly when his tongue soothes it, licking the sweat that was definitely gathering there.

He kisses up the line of his neck and Hajime obligingly tilts it back, Tooru coming to a stop to score his teeth against his earlobe.

“Was it for me, Hajime?” he chuckles, no hiding behind a playful nickname here, “That entire show you were putting on there, all of it; was it for me? Did you want senpai to notice you?”

“So fucking egotistical,” Hajime laughs, low and dark, “You are not the center of my universe, Oikawa.”

Tooru dips his head to pinch the skin behind one ear and suck on it in a silent reprimand. _Liar_ , it screams.

“Then why stay here with me, hm?”

“My standards are low tonight.” He replies and bends his knees slightly to smoothly roll his body against the hard planes of Tooru’s, “And I’m drunk enough to not care.”

Tooru’s breath hitches at the motion and Hajime cheers inwardly.

“Oh? So you’d move like a _slut_ for anyone then, won’t you?” he says, fiery, his fingers bunching his jeans from where they’re still resting on Hajime’s thigh, and Hajime grits his teeth against the annoyance that is hotly climbing up his throat.

“Let’s not pretend like you’re some innocent virgin, asshole,” Hajime shoots back, “God knows I walked in on you far too many times because you’re a such fucking exhibitionist.”

Tooru laughs that infuriating, satisfied laugh that came from him knowing that he’d gotten under someone’s skin successfully. He lightly runs the tip of his tongue behind Hajime’s ear and laughs again when Hajime can’t control the shudder that comes on.

“Were you jealous, Iwa-chan?” he trills and the surge of anger that boils up from within him, braced by _years_ of hurt, he’s surprised he doesn’t spontaneously combust from it.

“You’re such an utter bastard,” Hajime growls and then scoffs, “And don’t talk to me about jealousy when you were the one to physically drag me away to a corner.”

“I was only saving those poor girls from your terrifying presence.” Tooru replies, reasonable.

“How fucking _gallant_ ,” Hajime spits, even as the hand on his abdomen goes lower, fingers sneaking under his shirt to trace small circles on his skin and he swallows around a moan at the press of calloused fingers, “Not so terrifying when you have this-” and here, Hajime unashamedly grinds his ass against Tooru’s groin and rubs against the half-hard length there for emphasis, “-to show for it, huh, Oikawa?”

At the pressure against him, Tooru groans deeply, _beautifully_ , into Hajime’s ear and the next thing he knows, he’s being turned around, a hand on his lower back is pushing him into the leanness that is Tooru, pressing Hajime up against him. It’s difficult to tell what kind of an expression Tooru is wearing, but Hajime can make out hooded eyes and that come-hither look in them, the same one he’d seen directed towards one too many girls in high school.

Hajime stares back defiantly, knowing that his tenderness for this man still shone through and betrayed him.

Tooru’s fingers card through his hair and wrench his head back in one quick motion, tilting his chin upwards. Hajime parts his lips, his eyes falling shut, body going soft and pliant. He should fight but that young boy of eighteen, smitten by the shooting star that is his best friend, his very _world_ , is still there inside of him and he’s cheering.

His moon and his stars, the love of his life, the be all and end all, all-encompassing, soul-destroying storm that is Oikawa Tooru fits his lips against his own and Hajime wants to cry, because it’s exactly as revelatory as he’d feared it’d be.

Hajime doesn’t know what it is about it because it settles something deep inside his chest, the ever-present ache that rested in his heart. It’s soft and delicate – a soft press of Tooru’s plush lips against his own – for exactly two long heartbreaking seconds before the moment shatters and Tooru’s moving his lips, ravaging and hungry, his tongue sliding into Hajime’s mouth and tangling with his. He swallows the choked off moan Hajime makes, hums in return, and then withdraws to bite his lip, hard, sucking on it harshly.

His younger self, Hajime can imagine him cocking his head, trying find the love that is supposed to be there in their traded kisses, trying to understand why Hajime is tilting his head back and letting Tooru just _take_ without resistance. Wondering why Hajime suddenly feels a sob clawing up his throat.

Two things flash in his mind:

_You weren’t good enough._

and

_He doesn’t want me._

The phrases are enough for Hajime to push Tooru back, and wrench him from his lips with a wet smack.

Tooru stares at him. A sweep of neon lights shows lust-dark eyes and spit-slick lips, his expression filled with undisguised want. Hajime’s breath hitches and there’s a moment of weakness, in which he wants nothing more than to dive back and taste Tooru on his tongue again, but he knows that the longer he draws this out, the harder it’ll hurt.

“Not here,” he says and grasps Tooru’s wrist, dragging him out of the crowds and to the bar, where he gives Issei and Takahiro a nod, ignoring the identical looks of judgment they’re giving him in return. Tooru says something to them but Hajime is not listening; he’s more focused on getting out of the club and to a safe space where they can talk.

*

He flags the first cab he finds and rattles off the address of Tooru’s Sendagaya apartment. It’s a short ride and Hajime is thankful for it because it’s difficult for him to ignore the way Tooru’s fingers skitter down his neck, tracing nonsensical patterns on his skin, the way Tooru presses himself into Hajime’s side.

Ten minutes later and the lust in his blood has subsided, the cool night air has sobered him up. Hajime pays the driver and thanks him, then follows Tooru up to his place, dread weighing heavy with each step he takes. Tooru quickly unlocks his front door and pulls Hajime in with a single smooth motion and backs him against the wall, kicking the door shut, his fingers quickly fiddling with the light switches next to Hajime’s head. He holds Hajime’s eyes and Hajime is a touch saddened to find that he can’t read Tooru’s.

Tooru leans in, ignoring the tight line of Hajime’s mouth.

“No.” Hajime says when he’s a bare hair’s breadth away.

“You want this.” Tooru replies, unsubtly fitting their hips together, “ _I_ want this. I don’t see the problem.”

“I’m not doing this, Tooru,” Hajime pushes him back this time, even though it is difficult to do. He steps away from him, running a jerky hand through his hair, “What the fuck do you even want from me?”

Tooru turns to him, his eyes steely and determined, like they used to get in the court. Hajime is ashamed to note that it still makes him weak in the knees.

“I thought I’d made it rather obvious.”

“A quick fuck,” Hajime bites the inside of his cheek and prays he doesn’t look hurt; only angry, “Is that all I am to you now?”

Tooru’s grin is lascivious. “It could be more than one.”

Hajime tries to pretend that he doesn’t feel like throwing up.

“You know, I had hoped you had more respect for what we used to be to resort to _this_ with me.” Hajime shakes his head and his chest hurts, “I had hoped that I was an exception to all the crap you pull on the rest of the world.”

Here, Tooru’s eyes widen in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Hajime laughs mirthlessly.

“Five _years_ , you fucking asshole,” Hajime bores a searing, angry gaze at him, “You can’t just waltz back into my life after five years of nothing and pretend like we’re still eighteen and still living in each other’s pockets.”

Tooru looks taken aback. “So, was I wrong in assuming that we were untouchable enough to get past this?”

“That’s not how it works when you cut someone off,” Hajime spits through gritted teeth, the hot boil of anger climbing in his chest.

“Don’t put this on me,” Tooru replies narrowing his eyes, “You’re the one who started it.”

At that, Hajime can only stare at him out of sheer incredulity.

“Oh, please; don’t look at me like that, Hajime,” Tooru scoffs, “You’re the one who lied to me first – telling me that you’re going to Tohokudai when you were in the same goddamned city as me the whole time.”

“Like you cared.” Hajime hisses.

“I fucking _did_.” Tooru runs a hand through his hair, “You know, I looked for you when we played against Tohokudai. Imagine my surprise when they hadn’t heard of an Iwaizumi Hajime at all. Then what, your mother stopped talking about you to mine and it was like you’d dropped off the face of the fucking earth. Tell me, what the hell am I supposed to make of that?”

“You…” Hajime swallows, feeling his heart beat in double time in the fury that was threatening to consume him, “Are you telling me that not taking my calls or my messages _and_ refusing to see me for two fucking _weeks_ after I…” he trails off, unable to verbalize the word ‘confessed’, “After I said what I said is supposed to somehow mean that you’d want to see me again?”

Tooru pauses, steps back almost involuntarily. At this point, Hajime realizes that they’d gotten all up in each other’s personal space, the way they used to as children, as pre-teens, as teenagers, when one was trying to make a point and the other was staunchly resisting it. He looks fully and then Tooru’s mouth is a tight line, his shoulders hunched and the fingers of one hand are digging into the other elbow.

“You have to know I was taking my time.” He says defensively.

“I _know_. But did you know how _I_ was feeling?” At Hajime’s words, Tooru purses his lips, speechless. Hajime exhales in what feels like defeat, “Of course you didn’t. I don’t even know why I am even surprised at this point.”

“What did you _want_ me to say, Hajime?!” Tooru turns, his face contorting in something like pain, “You just dropped that on me out of nowhere; how did you expect me to react?”

“Don’t make it sound like I was forcing you into anything,” Hajime replies, “Fuck, all I wanted was to get it off my chest. God knows you were more than adept at handing out rejections, Tooru; you could’ve treated it like that.”

“How did you expect me to say something like that to you?” Tooru hisses, his forehead furrowing in anger, “To _you_ , of all people?”

Hajime laughs. He actually laughs and it’s a disbelieving, humorless sound.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” he feels a manic grin curving on his lips and it makes Tooru step back, like Hajime is something dangerous, “Okay, then. I’m sorry for putting you in spot like that. I’m sorry for trying to let you go. I’m sorry for doing this _one_ thing for myself, for my own sake, and not deferring to your sorry ass instead. That’s what you wanted from me, right? To clear your conscience?”

A outraged expression climbs into Tooru’s face almost immediately.

“I did _not_ say that,” he denies and it only makes Hajime angrier.

“Then _what_? That’s exactly what you were doing tonight too – you thought that sleeping with me was somehow supposed to put me at ease.”

“I- I don’t-”

“You don’t even _want_ me, you asshole.” Hajime says and his voice is raw and hurt and he hates himself for letting it show. Tooru swallows and looks a touch hunted.

“You don’t know that,” he doesn’t meet Hajime’s eyes when he says that and Hajime feels the fight drop right out of his body. He’d hoped he’d read the situation wrong but, clearly, his experience in reading Oikawa held here too.

“I do, actually.” Hajime clenches his jaw briefly, “The only reason you were riling me up was because you’d hoped that I’d get angry enough and take the fucking lead. Then you could just, I don’t know, lie back and think about volleyball or whatever the fuck else, and then you could just up and leave for the fucking Worlds next week and then I’m not your problem. Am I close enough?”

The resolute way Tooru is looking away from him talks for him. Hajime closes his eyes and tries to breathe evenly, tries to keep the pain out of his face.

“Why, Tooru?” he exhales deeply and his voice is small. Pleading, even, “Why would you ever do that to me?”

“I want you back.” Tooru replies, curt.

“And you didn’t have to do all that crap; because you already have me.” Hajime informs him, “The moment you showed up in the hospital, smiling like you were goddamned sunshine, I forgave everything. I always forgive your stupid shit, Tooru, always have. I always will.”

The curve of Tooru’s lips tightens on the edges.

“And you know why I’d do that?” Hajime’s voice drops in volume, going sweet and soft, “Because I am _weak_. Because I am so stupidly in love with you, I’d do anything to keep you around.”

This time Tooru looks at him, his eyes wide and luminous, tears evident. He fights them and his face turns ugly with it, but Hajime still thinks that he’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen.

Hajime swallows, pressing a fist against one eye, hating that it came away wet. “I tried contacting you after that day. If you would’ve just fucking _talked_ to me, you would’ve known that I wanted to take it back. I wanted us to be friends despite it and, yes, we _would_ have been untouchable, Tooru, if you could’ve just fucking _talked_ to me instead of casting me aside like I was some sort of… _disease_.”

“I don’t think of it like that,” Tooru interrupts, “Come on, Hajime-”

“I can’t do this.” Hajime meets Tooru’s eyes, and he knows he looks pained, “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“Hajime,”

“It hurts too much.”

“ _Hajime_ ,”

“I can’t, Tooru.” Hajime says.

Tooru looks at him, his expression pleading, and Hajime has to close his eyes to will the strength to walk away from him. It’s for the best, he thinks, and sometimes doing the right thing can be one of the hardest things in the world.

*

Five years ago in late March, two weeks after their graduation, Hajime let the string between them slacken and left it to wither with age.

Now, he lets the same string that had been pulled taut, pulled them together again, give under the tension and snap finally, decisively, as he pulls the door to Tooru’s apartment shut behind him.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. This has been both a joy and a complete pain to write. I've watched way too many videos of dance routines - specifically of K-Pop boy bands - and writing something visual like dance is hard. Still, I hope it wasn't too terrible an attempt. 
> 
> This is also the first time I've actually written something more than vaguely alluded smut. My kink meme lurking experience has come in handy.
> 
> Fun fact - the story was _supposed_ to be resolved in the club scene at the end, but... well, that's not how things worked out. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this an interlude for things to come. :)

*

One in the morning finds Hajime sitting outside the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym with a cold, overly sugary coffee drink from a vending machine, looking up at the building that is lit up in soft lights. It’s late August and even the nights are sweltering, given that Hajime has folded up the sleeves of his button down and loosened the collar.

He’s been watching the building dully for a good half hour, just motionlessly sitting around, listening to the occasional car speed by. Shock, he supposes, because Hajime can’t really feel much of anything at the moment.

He considers calling Takahiro or Issei, then immediately discards the idea since both of them have to catch their shinkansen back to Sendai in some five hours. He’s not sure what he’ll say to either of them either, considering that they _had_ warned him to be careful. It’s almost unfair that everyone expects Hajime to be the responsible one, forever absolving Tooru of it, dismissing it since it’s just who he is.

He flips through his contacts and lands on Kiyoko’s name, his thumb hovering over her number. It drops as he presses down on it after a few long seconds of indecision and Hajime presses his phone to his ear, listening to it ring.

“Hajime?” Kiyoko says around a yawn and Hajime, belatedly, remembers that she went to bed at precisely ten forty five every night, with only a couple of rare exceptions.

“Fuck, sorry,” he hurriedly apologizes, “I forgot you’d be asleep.”

“Well, I’m awake _now_ ,” she says, “Are you okay? You never call at night.”

“Can I crash at your place tonight?” he blurts and hears Kiyoko inhale a sharp breath of surprise. He rushes to explain, “I just need a place to sleep.”

“Oh…” she exhales slowly, “Alright. Come on over.”

Hajime lets out a sigh of relief. “Thanks. It should take me another ten minutes or so.”

“Okay. See you,” She says and then hangs up without another word. Hajime holds the phone to his ear for a couple more minutes before getting up to discard his empty can.

His cab ride is quiet and swift. He doesn’t even blink at the extra night charges, preferring to hand off his money and leave without taking the change. It takes a couple of moments of convincing the building’s security, but then they realize that Kiyoko’s request to let him in is there. He goes and takes the stairs to the fifth floor, eschewing the elevator entirely.

Kiyoko greets him at her doorstep in silence. Hajime can feel her taking in every little detail about his appearance regardless, even in the soft light of the hallway.

“I’ll take the couch, okay?” Hajime says but she frowns and leads him to her bedroom anyway, all but throwing him onto the bed. Before he can protest, she fixes him with a flat look, effectively freezing him in place.

“You look awful,” she says and looks pointedly at the house slippers encasing his feet.

Hajime drops them with a wry smile, tucking his legs under the sheets and turning to one side, facing the wall. Kiyoko slides in beside him, leaving a careful distance between them, before turning off the lights. There’s a rustling of sheets and Kiyoko settling on her pillow, and Hajime exhales.

It’s silent, save for the ambient noises. Minutes pass with them just lying beside each other. Hajime half thinks that she must have fallen asleep, except she speaks up soon enough.

“I told you to be careful.” She tells him and Hajime shrinks in shame. All of them had, actually but only Kiyoko was vocal enough to impress it at every point over the last three and a half months. Hajime’s reply had been the same placating huff of air and a reassuring squeeze of her wrist.

“I know,” he exhales, tangling his fingers in the sheets, “It’s over now. We’re done.”

Aside from a noise of surprise, there is nothing else from her. Hajime swallows, before bursting out in mirthless laughter – one that sounds more hysterical than anything else.

“I…” he starts, hating that his voice is so small and hesitant, “I don’t know what to do now.”

The words reverberate in the air and Hajime swears he can see the indistinct shapes of them in the dark space stretching before him. A fine boned hand comes to rest between his scapula, palm resting flat and heat radiating and sinking into his skin even through the shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut at the touch, tensing despite the way it’s keeping him grounded.

“Nowhere to go but forward, right?” she whispers and Hajime exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a watery laugh.

“Yeah,” he replies, wiping the last of the stray tears that had tracked down his face, “Makes sense.”

He falls asleep without realizing he had and wakes the next morning, sheets tangled around his middle as Kiyoko laughs at his pissy, hungover self. They go for brunch and, when Hajime returns to his place, it’s so spotless, it’s like Takahiro and Issei hadn’t touched it.

Hajime tracks through his apartment in silence and absently wonders if, somewhere in the future, he can become untainted like that – as if Tooru had never lived in his heart at all.

*

Life goes on slowly, excruciatingly.

The thing about medical school is that the time crunch forever saps a student of having any semblance of a social life, much less even have enough brain power left to entertain the bleak possibility. Hajime dives in head first, but not before handing off Tooru’s medical files to another doctor.

Still, there were slivers of spaces that Tooru had effortlessly wormed his way in – spaces like the 5:00 p.m. Monday evening appointment that Tooru had convinced Hajime’s professor into allowing, despite Hajime being a student; spaces like the twenty minute lunch break in the basement of the hospital that almost always stretched to a half hour and led to Ushijima calling to break it up; spaces like the bi-weekly movie marathon that Tooru would inevitably set up, despite knowing that Hajime had reports to write and files to read, despite the fact that it’d just end with each of them doing their own thing and passing out on the couch, upright and sides pressed together, heads leaning against one another’s.

Spaces that now sat open and yawning and Hajime can’t even remember what used to be there in the first place.

He tries. He gets lunch with any permutation of Yaku, Suga and Kiyoko since all of them had opted for the same hospital. He gets drinks with them after work sometimes or they get food at their usual family restaurant and complete whatever assignments they had. He goes shopping with Kiyoko on the weekend, picking out a birthday gift for that tiny blonde co-manager from Karasuno, Yachi, who makes Kiyoko light up like nothing else.

He tries and he hopes it sticks.

Somehow, Takahiro and Issei don’t bring it up and Hajime knows that they know. Their messages are still exactly as blasé and annoying as ever, despite the fact that there used to be a short three and a half months in which time had reversed, only not quite, and they were the same close-knit quartet from before.

They don’t bring it up but Hajime knows what they’re asking with their shitty forwarded messages – _are you okay?_ When Hajime replies with his usual pissed off rejoinders, he’s silently answering with an _I will be_.

*

(Back bowing forward, he straightens his spine so it’s parallel to the floor – very similar to how his arms are extended on either side of him, palms downwards – and his right leg stretches behind and upward, making an obtuse angle against his torso. He subtly pivots his supporting left leg and curves his body in a circle, so that the leg behind him fluidly returns to its place, mirroring its brother. Without even pausing for breath, he bends both knees, his chest thrown outwards and back as he falls to the ground, rolling to his front to do a handstand. His legs bend again as he braces and pushes against the floor, landing on his feet in a perfectly graceful backflip.

The music fades with his face turned to the ceiling, arms stretching upwards, and Hajime laughs.)

*

Tetsurou surveys him over his bowl, chewing on his grilled mackerel. Hajime slurps his noodles, ignoring the calculative edge in those eyes.

It ought to come as less of a surprise that Tetsurou was interning at the same damned hospital for the next couple of months. It’s not that Hajime hates him – they’re too tired for that – but, well, Tetsurou’s presence burns something harsh; he doesn’t know _what_.

Still, they meet for dinner haphazardly – sometimes three consecutive days in a row, sometimes three weeks without even a call – and they snipe over whatever they’re having but it’s mostly small talk and just the warmth of the other’s company.

Today is a hole in the wall ramen ya near Tetsurou’s apartment and it had gone like this – Hajime had accompanied him here after he’d assured him that the best fucking miso ramen outside of Hokkaido could be found here. Briefly, he’d caught the blond kid – Tetsurou’s ex-setter Kozume, if he remembers correctly – and Tetsurou exchanging words at the threshold of their building and Tetsurou’s posture is oddly jittered after the fact.

He sheds the discomfort, of course – Tetsurou is almost predictable in the way he hides his irritation behind a smirk.

The air between them hangs thick with unsaid things, even as they talk. Hajime doesn’t know why they are like this right now, but he has an inkling it has to do with Kozume – because Hajime _hadn’t_ missed the appraising and, frankly, _annoyed_ look Kozume had thrown at him over Tetsurou’s shoulder.

Tetsurou twirls his noodles around his chopsticks casually. Too casually.

“We won Worlds this time,” he says and there’s really no need for him to elaborate, no need for Hajime to feign ignorance and ask _which sport,_ like he doesn’t know.

And, really, it’s _impossible_ for him not to know – it’s in the middle of October, two weeks since the winners of the FIVB Men’s Worlds Championships’ 2018 had been decided after a full five sets against Brazil’s best. Two weeks of people lauding Japan’s third medal in Worlds – their first _gold_ at that – and putting the weight of their victory firmly on a pair of newcomers who were given preference over all those veterans, a chance that had more risk involved than success.

Even all of Hajime’s bitterness and melancholy hadn’t kept him from messaging Tooru his congratulations; he wasn’t nearly as petty.

“Good to hear, I guess,” Hajime replies, feeling the hefty, pointed look from Tetsurou as if he’s being prodded physically.

“Hajime,” he says and there is such a whirlpool of emotions in that sound, Hajime just _has_ to look up to take in Tetsurou’s face.

Tetsurou’s lips curl and draw back to expose gritted teeth. He shakes his head from side to side in quick, short motions, looking – of all things – downright _annoyed_.

His tone goes low and he somehow manages to sound both offended and disappointed. “Don’t insult my intelligence and pretend like I didn’t _see_ you two.”

Problem is, Hajime _does_ remember – late August, sitting on a corner table for two with a couple of karaage bentos Tooru had picked up from a Lawson’s on his way here, leaning into each other over the small table in such a way that their heads almost touched, talking in soft laughs and lilting tones. He’d only become aware of their proximity once his eyes had skittered away from Tooru’s form only to catch Tetsurou sitting some two tables away, meeting Hajime’s eyes in a weighted way that screamed that he knew _everything_.

They hadn’t talked about it, even though Hajime had been wary over the next couple of days and, really, he should’ve known better – Tetsurou never forgot things, after all.

“And?” Hajime puts on a façade of false bravado, even though he’s crumbling on the inside, “Is that supposed to mean anything?”

He expects Tetsurou to prod, to accuse. He doesn’t expect him to lean back and assess him carefully, putting down his chopsticks to fold his arms across his chest. Hajime meets his gaze without flinching.

Their noodles turn soggy the longer they’re left in the broth.

“I always thought that we could’ve worked,” Tetsurou says, tangentially, “You and I.”

This time, Hajime is the one to drop his chopsticks.

“ _What_?”

Tetsurou shrugs, utterly unashamed.

“I was actually willing to put in the work for you, you know. I’ve never wanted to do that with anyone else.” Here, he looks away and picks up his chopsticks again, “Well, except for _one_ other person… but, that’s not important. Point is, that day I realized that it wouldn’t have worked out after all.”

Hajime wants to retort with the age old barb of pointing out that he really disliked Tetsurou which is why it couldn’t have worked out but… well, it’d be a lie wouldn’t it? Because Hajime doesn’t hate Tetsurou – though it feels more like he _can’t_.

They’re friends, despite every hateful thing Hajime has thought about him over the years. They’re friends and Hajime did sometimes think about what it’d be like to introduce Tetsurou to Tooru – except they probably already knew each other, given that they ran in the same circuits at a point in time – and he wonders if they’d get along obnoxiously well or if they’d hate each other’s guts.

(It’s then that it hits him _why_ he was so drawn to Tetsurou initially, because his similarity to Tooru is pretty hard to ignore now.)

Hajime clears his throat when he realizes he’s been staring at Tetsurou without saying anything.

“Why so?” he asks after clearing his throat a second time and Tetsurou keeps his gaze fixed on his bowl as he eats. A small, self-deprecating edge sneaks into his smile when he looks up at Hajime.

“Because we both feel too much for someone else,” Tetsurou says, “I don’t think either of us could’ve felt like that for each other, you know?”

Hajime nods and doesn’t say anything more. Tetsurou finishes his bowl and Hajime has already drained his dry, so he walks Tetsurou to his apartment and leaves after wrapping him up in a wordless hug. Tetsurou is surprised but he catches on soon enough and he curls an arm around Hajime’s shoulders, pressing his lips to Hajime’s temple dryly.

It’s so unlike them that Hajime almost laughs – neither he nor Tetsurou do sweet; they never have. But it’s also a strange sort of a comfort so Hajime yields to Tetsurou’s form briefly before pulling away.

On his way home, Hajime wonders if they could’ve had something if they’d tried just a little harder and ignored the protests of their hearts. Would it have been self-destructive and all consuming? Would they have lasted or would they have collapsed under the weight of themselves?

These are things Hajime doesn’t know and he lets them go, setting them free into the night air, strangely hopeful all the same.

*

(He never actually gets around to asking Tetsurou who it was, but he gets his answer anyway when Kozume stops by the hospital one day.

Tetsurou’s ubiquitous smirk gives way to a fond smile, something Kozume doesn’t see because he’s too busy burying himself into his 3DS. Hajime sees it though, and he watches Tetsurou’s showy, look-at-me demeanor soften to outright _smitten_ and he knows that Tetsurou and he could’ve never been like that.

There’s a sharp curve of longing too, one that settles into his face when Kozume leaves eventually and Tetsurou watches the smaller man disappear.

Hajime wonders if this was what he’d looked like all the time and then he leaves too, diving into work till he isn’t wondering at all.)

*

Issei messages him a time and place and Hajime doesn’t even think before he’s acting and then he realizes that his professor had allowed him to get out an hour and a half early on Friday. After that, he’s just excited by the prospect of seeing an old friend.

Hajime doesn’t even change out of his lab coat till he’s in the subway, feet pattering excitedly on the floor. He’s happy, he realizes, and it shows in the enthusiastic way he greets Issei, wrapping up his taller form in a hug.

Issei laughs and they take a quiet corner in a restaurant that he insists has some fantastically decadent hamburger steaks, one that is even cooked with an entire wheel of cheese in the middle. Hajime already knows what’s going to be ordered and he refuses to partake a bite of said monstrosity on principle.

It’s pleasant – Hajime talks about the hospital, Issei talks about his work with his firm and that he’d come to Tokyo on business and they both lament over Aoba Jousai’s eternal runner-up status against Shiratorizawa – till Issei is halfway through his steak and he puts his cutlery down.

His mouth curves into a mocking smile at Hajime’s puzzled look. “So, according to ‘Hiro, I owe you an apology.”

Hajime doesn’t respond and he thinks that Issei is joking about something… except he wasn’t so sure, not when Issei looked almost _guilty_.

“Just…” he says, his perpetually sleepy eyes crinkling on the edges as he cringes, “Just promise me you won’t get mad till you hear me out.”

“Can’t make any promises when you say _that_ ,” Hajime replies, folding his arms.

“Fair enough,” Issei nods, carding a hand through his hair and huffing a sigh. His posture straightens and Hajime can visibly see him steel himself, “I was the one who told Tooru where to find you.”

The reaction is instantaneous – Hajime doesn’t even realize he’s made to rise out of his seat and reach a hand towards Issei till his chair makes a high-pitched screech against the floor tiles. Issei looks back at him calmly, but Hajime doesn’t miss the fine tremor in his hand.

Hajime seats himself in his chair before he speaks. “Explain, _now_.”

Issei nods complacently – most likely deferring to the murderous look Hajime was _definitely_ sporting right now. Suddenly it makes sense _why_ they had to meet in a restaurant instead of going to Hajime’s place and getting drunk as per usual. It doesn’t help Issei’s reputation at all and Hajime can only fold his arms and look at him flatly.

“Look,” Issei starts, leaning over the table slightly, “He was a mess without you. Obviously he tried to hide it, tried to pretend like he could function without you, but he reached out to me, eventually.”

He takes a swallow of his water, assessing Hajime’s reaction. Hajime wasn’t sure _what_ he was supposed to be feeling, so he just sat in place stonily, silently urging that Issei continue.

He does.

“At this point neither ‘Hiro nor I had any idea why the two of you weren’t talking anymore, so I humored him, tried to get him back on track. Even contacted Ushiwaka once and told him to keep an eye on his stupid setter. I told Tooru to call you with his problems sometimes, and he always went quiet and I assumed it must be because he was scared of you seeing just how badly he was screwing up. I mean, he wasn’t eating or sleeping properly in the first few months of University and he almost fucked up his knee again because there was no one there to tell him to stop-”

“Issei,” Hajime cuts in because it was getting difficult to hear, “Is there a fucking _point_?”

“Oh.” Issei swallows, a little taken aback. “This is just… you have to understand where I was coming from, alright? ‘Hiro knew I was talking with him but even he has no idea what was happening with Tooru. Hell, he almost ripped my throat out when he realized that I intended to give Tooru your address. Fuck, he got pissed at me the day after the club too, because he said that I could’ve prevented it.”

“Could you have?” Hajime asks, rhetorical, before he can stop himself. Issei meets his eyes and his lips curve up in a rueful half-smile.

“Not really.” He answers, “You know, after he was chosen for the Worlds starting lineup, it was the first time he asked about you.”

Hajime inhales sharply and the look in Issei’s eyes tells him that he’s pleased by the reaction. He continues, “He wanted to know where you were and your mom won’t tell him. I didn’t want to either, not until I knew what he wanted with you, so we talked about it.”

Issei quiets and looks positively discomfited, his eyes turning to the oozing pile of cheese on his plate. “Look, you both _worked_ , okay? ‘Hiro and I, we both thought so; _everyone_ thought so. You kept him in line and brought him balance. You aren’t… _replaceable_ for him, you know that, right?”

There is a lump in Hajime’s throat and he is glad Issei isn’t looking at him. He isn’t sure what kind of a face he is making at the moment, but, given by the bile rising in his throat, he can make an educated guess. Issei looks up and he shrinks.

“Fuck,” he laughs, rubbing his face with a hand, “’Hiro was right. Looks like neither of us can handle _you_ crying.”

“I’m not-” Hajime starts, but Issei just motions for him to stop.

“Hajime,” he says and Hajime quiets but he looks away from him resolutely, “I’m sorry, okay? On some level, I knew that he was going to hurt you but I had hoped that you could’ve stopped him. I’m not making excuses; it’s just that… Tooru doesn’t know what he wants. He’s kind of useless without you there.”

“Sure doesn’t look like it to me,” Hajime scoffs and Issei chuckles lightly.

“You of all people should know how well he can fake it, hm?”

Hajime weighs the words, closing his eyes against them. “I’m not going to go _back_ because of that.”

“Not saying that you have to,” Issei agrees readily.

“He just,” Hajime’s fists curl involuntarily, “He fucks me up. Always has.”

“I know.” This time, Issei reaches across the table to poke Hajime’s shoulder for attention, “I don’t know what this makes me, but it made me happy that even an utter, unrepentant asshole like Oikawa Tooru could have someone who loved him like that, flaws and all.”

Hajime’s face contorts with a wave of emotions. Opposite him, he can feel Issei regarding him patiently.

“You can just put your inner romantic back where it came from, alright?” he sneers, failing to conceal his hurt, “Because he doesn’t actually want me, Issei,”

Issei exhales. “To be honest, I don’t think he really knows _what_ he wants.”

“And I can’t keep… _waiting_ around till he figures it out. I’ve been doing that for the last five goddamned _years_ and I didn’t even know it.”

“That’s fair.” Issei says but it sounds like he doesn’t think it fair at all.

“I can’t do it, Issei.” Hajime repeats and this time, when he looks at Issei, he watches his eyes grow wide in understanding, watches him wilt under the implications.

“Okay,” he nods, contrite, “ _Okay_.”

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, despite the fact that their respective appetites have deserted them. The check is split and they walk out into the nippy early November air, drawing their jackets around themselves involuntarily.

Issei has a hotel room to himself and an early morning flight to catch, so he pushes Hajime towards the train station, but not before clasping his shoulders and leaning down to look him in the eyes.

“If it wasn’t clear enough, ‘Hiro and I don’t actually give a shit if you’re both… gay or whatever. We’re here regardless of what you choose to do.”

“What if we never want to see each other again?” Hajime blurts quickly. Issei’s face relaxes into his usual placid half-smile.

“Well, then I’d say that we’ve had practice. Like, five years’ worth.” Then, his smile grows fonder, softer, “Not that I actually believe that either of you will keep away from each other for too long.”

“That’s,” Hajime’s voice catches in his throat, “That’s not how it _works_.”

“If you say so,” Issei replies, before pushing Hajime’s face in his chest and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “We’re here, you hear me?”

Hajime nods, feeling somewhat safe inside Issei’s arms, a little more normal. Issei rubs his fingers through the back of Hajime’s head, comforting.

“Come home for New Year’s, okay?” he says, breaking away from Hajime, “We haven’t gone to the shrine together in forever.”

Hajime nods again and he waves Issei away, going home with a heavy head, intent on sleeping through the weekend.

*

Hajime is in a curry house with Kiyoko, Suga and Yaku, taking an extended lunch break to eat outside for a change, and that’s when it happens – there’s a shriek and an orange-haired blur comes streaking inside, almost bowling Suga face first into his curry from the force of the hug.

It is several minutes of disorientation and a familiar figure pulling the disruption away by the scruff of his neck, all while berating in a firm voice, before Hajime’s party of four bursts into excitement.

“Hinata?! Kageyama?! What are you two doing here?” Suga exclaims once he’s gotten a good look at the two men standing beside their table, bowing lowly for disturbing their meal.

“Tryouts,” Hinata says simply, lighting up with a bright, sunny smile.

“He means for the…” Kageyama trails off, a little unsure, before coloring and looking at his shoes, “For the National team.”

There is another uproar and Suga urging everyone to make space for their beloved kouhai and, as Kageyama settles in beside Hajime, Hajime realizes that Kageyama is fixing him with an expectant look, his eyes wide and guileless.

“Good for you,” Hajime tells him out of the corner of his mouth, slapping a shoulder.

Kageyama beams.

In the chaos that is Hinata Shouyou, Hajime learns that they’ve both been called out to try for the team since their first year of University and they’d showed off that freak quick of theirs at the Intra-Prefectural qualifiers but they’d only caved this year, now that they’d brought Tohokudai all the way up to the Nationals this year, together. Kageyama is content to remain silent beside Hajime, only occasionally inputting or casually remarking that ‘Shouyou’ had something on his face, then reaching out to wipe it off with a thumb.

No one comments on the familiar form of address but Hajime does see Suga’s smile pull wider, Yaku shake his head fondly and Kiyoko sit up straighter, her profile brightening.

Their break runs too long, they realize, when Suga’s phone starts ringing and he’s being asked for his whereabouts. Hajime hangs back to settle the bill as Suga and Yaku book it, because he isn’t needed for another hour or so. Kiyoko wants to keep him company but she has her rounds in another twenty minutes, so Hajime sends her on her way too.

Predictably, Kageyama haggles over the bill, insisting on paying it in full since he’d barged his way into lunch. Hajime protests, valiantly, and even adds in things like _can you really afford this on a student’s budget_ as if Hajime isn’t half a student himself, but it successfully causes Kageyama to wilt and pout childishly.

Eventually, they settle on paying their share and Hajime assures Kageyama that he is going to be collecting from everyone and Kageyama ought to do the same with Hinata.

They make their way out to the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym, despite Kageyama’s protests, but, hell, Hajime likes his kouhais, even if Hinata keeps staring at him in a way that could be easily misconstrued as fear, as much as Kageyama assures him that Hinata is just starstruck.

“Whatever for?” Hajime asks and Kageyama huffs, something that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh.

“He said he wanted to spike like you,” Kageyama says, even as Hinata’s face is burning in embarrassment, “Because you were so _cool_.”

Hajime can’t help it – he bursts out laughing. Hinata shrinks into Kageyama’s side, burying his face under Kageyama’s arm and Hajime spots the tips of Hinata’s ears glowing red.

“But you _were_ cool,” Hinata mumbles, petulant, and Hajime watches with a fascination as Kageyama cards his long fingers through Hinata’s hair in a soothing motion.

“Shoyou, get us a drink, will you?” Kageyama says softly once they’re outside the Gym. Hinata nods and it’s silently understood that Hajime will partake in the can of Pocari that will inevitably be shoved in his hands.

Kageyama leads them out back and to a set of benches that are in the vicinity of a couple of vending machines. Hinata is off like a shot, practically sprinting to get the drinks, and Kageyama watches after him in fond exasperation.

“So,” Hajime breaks the silence once they’re both seated, “You and Hinata, huh?”

Kageyama’s lips lift up in the approximation of a smile. “Me and Hinata,” he parrots.

“He’s…” Hajime looks back at where Hinata is on his tiptoes, trying to look at the drink choices that are up top, “He’s good for you.”

At that, Kageyama sits up straighter, eyes wide and tone earnest, “You really think so?”

Hajime assesses him and thinks back to the casual affection, the likes of which Kageyama would’ve never lowered himself to for anyone else. He looks at the way Kageyama looks, soft and fond in ways Hajime had never imagined him being.

Thing is, Kageyama is brash and unapologetic, awkward in ways that very few understood. He was an easy target for ostracism, because he could be unintentionally cruel, because he never learned how to soften his blows, he never learned how to have people return the trust he gave them. It’s why Hajime sometimes reached out to him in Kitagawa Daiichi, because he’d hoped that he could keep Kageyama from hurting.

Except, of course, he _did_ get hurt, but that’s beside the point.

“I do.” Hajime replies, honest, and it’s worth it to see Kageyama’s face light up like the very sun.

“It means a lot, thank you,” Kageyama lowers his head, suddenly bashful, “He makes me happy.”

Hajime bites the inside of his cheek at the way Kageyama looks and nothing can hide the way he practically glows in happiness. “That’s good.”

There is silence for a while. Hinata is still by the vending machines, except he’s nursing his drink and carefully avoiding their eyes from where he is standing. That’s when Hajime realizes that he’s giving them a moment but, for _what_ , he doesn’t know.

Then, Kageyama speaks up, his eyes still fixed on the ground in front of him, where he is scuffing his shoes.

“You know, I used to be really jealous of you, Iwaizumi-san.”

Hajime whips his head to stare at Kageyama’s profile, shocked.

“What?”

“Of you and Oikawa-san.” He elaborates, “The way you two were,”

“ _What_?” Hajime chokes out again, something weak. Kageyama keeps staring at his shoes, talking.

“Your partnership, really,” he says, “The way you two used to be on court, always in perfect sync, always with perfect trust in one another.” He pauses to fidget and Hajime can’t quite draw his eyes away from him, “I was jealous because I wanted someone like that too, someone who could… _understand_ what I was saying without needing to be told. I’m not the best with words, you know,”

Hajime laughs softly at the last declaration, but he’s sure that it just sounds pained.

“But then…” Kageyama looks up this time, face turned up to the dull yellow afternoon sun, “I went to high school and this annoying as shit bastard provoked me into a fight and got the both of us nearly booted out of the club, all because we couldn’t work together.”

Hajime watches the slow smile spread on Kageyama’s face, waist deep in reminiscent and he wants to look away because it’s far too intimate, because it feels like he’s intruding on something.

Kageyama laughs softly. “You know, the first time he spiked my toss, it was perfect. It wasn’t because he was the best player or anything of the sort. In fact, he’s pretty shit even _now_ , but the difference was, he trusted me. He trusted me to send him a toss tailored to him, just like I trusted him to hit it across the net.

“It’s not… it nothing like what you and Oikawa-san had, you know? You both made it look so effortless, but Shouyou and I, we aren’t like that. We need to work at it and more often than not we just end up shouting each other down because the understanding is not _perfect_ … but, you know something, Iwaizumi-san?”

Kageyama looks up to meet his eyes and Hajime is surprised to see the gentleness there.

“I realized that it is perfect for _us_.”

Hajime doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at the beatific smile Kageyama gives him, patient and knowing in ways that Hajime doesn’t know how to handle.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Kageyama?” Hajime asks, pointedly looking at his kouhai, knowing that he sounds more strangled than anything else.

Kageyama’s smile turns coy. “Maybe.”

“Don’t be cute with me,” Hajime says, though the threat falls short.

“Iwaizumi-san,” Kageyama reaches out to place a hand on Hajime’s forearm and leans forward in a way that Hajime has learned means that he’s making a point, “Whatever Oikawa-san has done, you both can get past it.”

Hajime jerks away from him, shocked. “You don’t know _shit_.” He growls.

Kageyama just frowns, but he is not offended. “Maybe not. But I know that you can work.”

“You _don’t_.” Hajime hisses and he distantly thinks that he shouldn’t be like this with his kouhai, because Kageyama is not the target for his misplaced anger, “How can you ever know if it will _work_?”

Here, Kageyama gives him a flat look.

“Because, if it is the two of you, it _will_.”

It’s the way he says it, so strong and believing, and it makes Hajime draw back and away. It’s the way he _looks_ , resolute and immovable, and it makes Hajime want to run.

“I should go,” Hajime manages, unable to break his gaze from Kageyama’s, “Best of luck to both of you.”

Kageyama’s nod is all Hajime sees before he abandons him and walks swiftly to the exit, ignoring the hurried patter of Hinata’s feet and his half yell of _what happened_ as he feels the itch under his skin.

He doesn’t stop poring over the words or thinking about Kageyama’s bald conviction till he drops off in bed that night.

*

(But, well, if he _is_ being honest, he doesn’t stop thinking about it at _all_ ; because the way Kageyama had said it – as if it was the absolute truth – that stays with him. He tries all the same because he was trying to move forward, trying break free of the riptide that was Oikawa Tooru, despite the fact that he’d long since been pulled under.

And, hey, what did they say about drowning – you can resuscitate a person up till an hour after their apparent death, can’t you?)

*

Rain suits Tokyo. Hajime doesn’t mind the rain particularly but, in the unexpected December evening downpour, he makes a break for the train stations despite the spare umbrellas available. He resolutely ignores the identical shrieks Yaku and Kiyoko make or Suga’s shouts about catching a chill and _are you a medical student or a child?!_

Hajime doesn’t know why he does it, except out of pure impulse and it’d been so _long_ since he’d done something like that. He giggles joyfully, almost like a kid who has gotten away with doing something naughty.

Of course, his goodwill lasts only so long till he gets to his apartment and hurriedly shucks off his clothes at the door, promising that he’ll take care of the pool of rainwater at the genkan once he’s warded off the chill.

His soak in the bath turns from ten minutes to a half hour and Hajime valiantly swears that he’ll never do something so patently stupid in the near future. Cleaning up the genkan and putting his clothes out to dry near the space heater is punishment enough, he thinks, and he goes off to fix himself something suitably warm.

He tucks himself under the old kotatsu Takahiro and Issei had sweetly transported in a car sometime the year before last, saying that he was lucky that they loved him. Hajime had nodded silently, not pointing out that his mother had most likely compensated them adequately for their troubles.

He’s watching this Korean crime drama, one that Takahiro had become obsessed with and had shamelessly begged Hajime to watch, when there is a knock on his door. With the rain still lashing outside, Hajime almost misses it over the ambient noises. He puts down his bowl of miso soup when there is another knock, louder this time.

“Coming, coming,” he calls, frowning because he loathes to detach himself from the warmth. He wraps himself in the blanket he had on hand, wondering who it could be – especially since none of the people he knew would brave the deluge to come see him, not unless they were desperate.

The knocking happens a third time and Hajime frowns as he gets the door. “Okay, who is th-”

His words die in his throat and Hajime can’t do much more than stare.

When Tooru speaks, his voice is small and meek.

“Can I come in?”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fun fact - this was supposed to be the second half of the story. The final scene, where everything gets resolved, ended up being _way_ longer than I intended it to be... and thus I had to break it up into three parts for readability's sake.
> 
> I'm just ironing out the kinks (heh) in the final part and it'll definitely be up within this week. Thank you again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd here's the payoff. Enjoy!

*

Hajime just stands there.

He _should_ slam the door in his face but he can’t quite manage it. Problem is, there is _Tooru_ , right there, within grabbing distance, and he is soaking wet, and owing a resemblance to a drenched puppy.

Hajime can’t quite form words. He can’t quite do much, actually, because it feels like Tooru has managed to short-circuit his brain-pan just by existing.

“It’s really cold out here,” Tooru tries, wrapping his arms around himself as he shivers, and that has Hajime moving aside and ushering Tooru in, pointing in the direction of his bathroom.

“Get yourself in the goddamned bath,” Hajime grouses, moving away to his bedroom to get some clothes that would fit a professional athlete, “Why the hell would you go out there in this weather?”

Tooru’s voice is small but Hajime hears it anyway. “I wanted to see you.”

Hajime has to close his eyes to compose himself because he doesn’t like the way Tooru sounds. _Hopeless_ , a part of him supplies anyway, because Hajime is accustomed to reading the enigma that is Oikawa Tooru to such a degree, it’s almost reflexive when he does it.

He walks to the bathroom with spare pajamas and his warmest sweatshirt anyway and deposits them on a dry ledge in the bathroom. He pulls out a towel from the storage closet too and hands it over.

“Put out your clothes by the heater when you get out,” he tells Tooru, both surprised and not surprised when Tooru’s cold fingers curl over his own, tightly.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, weak and desperate, even as he’s shivering.

“Get yourself warmed up, Tooru,” Hajime tells him and Tooru’s shoulders unwind at Hajime’s usage of his given name, “I’m not going to throw you out there in that weather, you know.”

“Iwa-chan,” he repeats when Hajime pries their fingers apart. He squeezes Tooru’s hand before letting it go.

“We’ll talk when you’re warm,” he says decisively and Tooru nods, closing the bathroom door after Hajime.

Once the sounds of running water start up, Hajime paces in his flat, the space feeling far too small all of a sudden. He wipes up the water Tooru had tracked through the apartment and then warms up the leftover miso soup he had, after which he abruptly decides to make fried rice, because he is hungry but mostly because he needs to distract himself.

He’s frying up the frozen croquettes Yaku had shoved on him – and Kiyoko and Suga; because he needed taste testers for his apparent innovation of the katsudon croquette – when Tooru emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed, and he comes to lean against the counter beside Hajime, completely silent. Hajime should be concentrating on the hot oil, on how the croquettes are browning in the pan, except he can’t help but look down at Tooru’s bare feet, from where he is unconsciously rubbing one against his ankle, Hajime’s pajamas running too short on Tooru’s long legs.

“Socks are in the top-left drawer near the shoe rack,” Hajime says abruptly. Tooru’s feet always got too cold, he remembers.

Tooru jolts from where he is standing and Hajime doesn’t see it as much as he senses it.

“Thanks,” Tooru says sheepishly and moves to the door, where his shoe rack sits.

“Get in the kotatsu, you hear?” Hajime calls after him and Tooru replies with a soft affirmation.

The rest of it is done on autopilot – in the three and a half months of having Tooru, Hajime had somehow become disgustingly domestic with him. He sets out the food on top of the kotatsu, prodding Tooru to drink the soup up while it was still hot, and Tooru obeys without even a whine.

They eat in silence as Hajime starts up the crime drama again, laptop angled so that they can both see it from the adjacent sides of their seats, and it’s so hilariously familiar to what they’ve been doing over the years, Hajime can’t help but think back to what Kageyama had said – _effortless_.

And, well, Hajime can’t quite dispute that because it _is_ effortless, the way they fall back together every time, despite the changed circumstances. He discreetly watches Tooru put away the fried rice, his gaze fixed on the laptop screen. It’s so deliberate and focused, Hajime knows that it’s because Tooru is avoiding looking at him.

Hajime can’t concentrate on the drama after that, because questions begin whirling in his head, because hope – always that blasted _hope_ – begins bubbling up in his chest.

There’s a clink against his plate and that’s when Hajime realizes that he’s finished his meal absently. Tooru turns to him with a cocked head, finally looking.

“I’ll put those away,” Hajime says when his eyes land on Tooru’s plate, polished clean, save for half a shrimp and a smattering of bread crumbs.

Tooru makes to scramble to his feet. “I’ll help.”

“You should stay in,” Hajime scowls. Tooru, of course, doesn’t listen and piles the plates together, leaving Hajime to get their bowls.

They wash the dishes, the way they’d started doing – wedged in near the tiny sink, side by side, with Tooru scrubbing the dishes and Hajime drying them.

( _Perfectly in sync_ , Kageyama’s voice echoes and he kind of wishes he’d punched the bastard for putting that crap in his head.)

Hajime is the first to get inside the kotatsu, curling up under the blanket and wrapping a second one around his back. Tooru says something about the bathroom and Hajime starts up the drama without him, watching it without really thinking.

He listens to Tooru’s footsteps as they near. He comes to a stop beside Hajime and kneels slowly, almost as if Hajime is a skittish animal. Hajime looks up at him and watches Tooru watch him, something unsaid unfurling in the air between them. It’s heavy in ways Hajime can’t remember being in high school and earlier, but he knows the tension between them now; he knows what this is, he can read it now.

Tooru lifts the kotatsu’s blanket and slides his long legs under, sitting right beside Hajime this time and not on another side. The space is too small for two fully grown men to sit in but Tooru manages to squeeze in, half tangled around Hajime. He doesn’t ask for permission, but he does hold Hajime’s gaze for one long moment before he pulls the blanket from Hajime’s shoulders, knuckles brushing against the back of his neck.

Hajime shudders at the ghost of a touch – he can’t help it – and that makes a smile flicker on Tooru’s face, ephemeral like quicksilver.

“It’s cold,” Tooru offers by way of explanation and wraps the blanket around them both. Hajime swallows and turns back to his laptop, all concentration evaporating.

They watch the show in silence but all Hajime can think and _feel_ is Tooru – the way their legs are tangled together, the way Hajime is tucked under Tooru’s arm, the way Tooru’s head rests against the top of Hajime’s and, _fuck_ , the way Tooru smells like _Hajime_ , like he fucking belongs to him or something.

It’s all fuzzy in a very familiar way, the way his reality always blurred when it came to Oikawa Tooru, and Hajime drowns in it, thinking about Tetsurou and now knowing that there was no fucking way Kuroo Tetsurou or Shimizu Kiyoko or any other person in the whole vast _universe_ could ever make him feel like this.

Tooru’s chest rumbles when he speaks, leaning forward to lower the volume of the video playing.

“I’m sorry,” he says and his hand comes to press Hajime’s head into place, almost knowing instinctively when Hajime was about to draw back to look at him incredulously. Hajime allows it, mostly because he’s not sure he can look at Tooru’s face without breaking down.

“For what?” Hajime asks, his voice tight.

“For a lot of things, to be honest.” Tooru replies, his fingers carding through Hajime’s hair, moving from his nape to the back of his head, and softly massaging his scalp. Hajime melts, he really can’t help it, “But mostly for not talking.”

Hajime nods, closing his eyes and turning his face to burrow into Tooru’s chest. Tooru huffs a soft laugh and continues his ministrations.

“I won the gold,” his voice rings with wonder, warm but with a touch of melancholy, “I did what I had dreamt of. Ushiwaka-chan, Kou-chan, all of us, we got Japan their first gold at Worlds and I should’ve been happy, I should’ve been ecstatic, but you know what?”

“What?” Hajime asks in a soft voice.

Tooru answers, a tinge of pain coloring his tone. “It wasn’t _enough_.”

“Nothing is ever enough for you,” Hajime answers and Tooru laughs wetly.

“That’s true,” he says and Hajime can hear the fond smile in his voice, “But do you know what was?”

This time, Hajime draws back and Tooru lets him tilt up his head and meet his eyes.

He smiles.

“These three months we had. A hundred and five days with you, again. _That_ was enough.”

Hajime can only stare at the way Tooru looks at him, like he’s something precious. There’s no stopping the rapid staccato of his heart, no stopping the hope now overflowing through his very being. Tooru continues, sweetly combing the hair back from Hajime’s face and Hajime can’t even bring himself to be ashamed for leaning into the touch.

“You didn’t let me explain, you know,” Tooru tells him in a soft voice, regarding him tenderly, “When you confessed that day, you messed me up, Hajime. I was already so worried about being apart from you and then you had to go say something like that and I didn’t know _how_ to face you after that. You made me reevaluate everything I had ever thought about our friendship and then I didn’t know how to reject you; mostly because, well, I didn’t _want_ to.”

This makes Hajime wrench himself backwards, except Tooru doesn’t let him go too far, stubbornly keeping Hajime in place with one hand still at the back of his head, fingers still tangled in Hajime’s dark hair.

“What do you mean you didn’t want to?”

“Honestly?” Tooru lifts his shoulder in a shrug, a sheepish expression on his face, “I’ve always been somewhat stupid about you, Iwa-chan. Stupid and too selfish. I kept thinking about how to keep you from other people and not about how I wanted to keep _you_. I didn’t know what I wanted from you and I didn’t know how to ask you to wait with all of this half-assed crap, because it wasn’t fair to you.”

“Tooru,” Hajime swallows, “Stop babbling. You’re saying so much shit but you’re actually saying nothing at all.”

Tooru laughs, rueful. “Ah, but you know that I babble when I get nervous, Iwa-chan. And you make me nervous.”

“What is that even supposed to _mean_?”

“You’ve always made me nervous.” Tooru continues, as if he hasn’t heard Hajime’s question, “I thought about that a lot, you know, all the things that made me nervous over the years.”

Hajime gives up on pushing him for an answer then. Tooru would somehow meander and get to the point regardless, so he instead prompts him. “Like what?”

“Did you know that all the girls who came to watch us practice in the gym weren’t just there for me?” Tooru’s non-sequitur makes Hajime freeze, “It used to make me panic and I didn’t know why. I kept rationalizing it as not wanting to lose _to_ you and didn’t realize that I was just scared of losing _you_.”

“So you-”

“Yeah,” Tooru laughs, soft and self-deprecating, “I used to flirt with them, compliment them more. Some of them wanted to confess to you despite it and they used to ask me to pass on their letters. I used to trash them, because the thought of you giving someone else more time than you gave me _sickened_ me.”

Hajime sits there, stunned. Tooru can’t quite meet his eyes and he’s ducked his chin in a way that Hajime recognizes is similar to the time he’d deleted Hajime’s Pokemon Soul Silver save file in a pique or when he’d lost the pen with the tiny plastic Godzilla figurine on its cap, the same one that was Hajime’s favorite when they were seven.

“Tooru,” Hajime starts but then Tooru shakes his head to make him stop, which is just as well, because Hajime couldn’t even begin to articulate his thoughts at the moment.

“Just,” Tooru swallows, still not looking at him, “Don’t say anything for a while. Please. I- I need to get this all out, okay?”

Hajime exhales with a soft sound and he nods, even though Tooru isn’t looking at him.

“Okay.”

Tooru’s acknowledging smile is small and grateful. The hand that is not in Hajime’s hair moves to link with one of Hajime’s hands, and Tooru grips it tightly. It’s a gesture that Hajime easily recognizes – Tooru holding his hand as if he’s drawing strength from sheer skin-to-skin osmosis – considering that he’d done it so often over the years. Hajime grips back and it elicits another smile from Tooru, this one softer and a little less fleeting.

“There are a lot of things that I realized I should’ve said to you,” he says, a slight pressure on the back of Hajime’s head urging him forward, till his forehead is resting on Tooru’s shoulder. Hajime goes without a protest – some things were easier said without looking, after all. Tooru continues, slightly relaxed by Hajime’s compliance, “Not… not just recently, but more like over the years. Like, I should’ve told you that you meant too much to me, not just in the context of volleyball. So _much_ , Iwa-chan, more than you’ll know.”

Hajime’s eyes slide shut and a shuddery exhale leaves him, despite himself. Tooru’s fingers squeeze his hand at that.

“You know, your mother told mine about your offer to Tohokudai ages ago.”

Hajime jolts at the confession, but he doesn’t look up. His mind bubbles with questions regardless but Tooru just weaves his fingers into his hair, languid, and soothes the apprehension with the motion.

“They gave me one too and my mother kept it for me, just in case. Then, you confessed at graduation and… Hajime, I didn’t- I didn’t think that you were _repulsive_. I didn’t think you were disgusting. It wasn’t like that at all. I just, I told my mother that you were going to Tohokudai and then she just came up and gave me this offer from Tohokudai and smiled and said that we could go _together_ and…”

Here, Tooru’s voice hitches and Hajime bites into his lower lip, pressing himself closer to Tooru. In return, Tooru’s hand tightens in Hajime’s hair, just enough to tug and not really hurt.

“You scared me, Hajime,” Tooru confesses in a whisper, “For the first time in my life, I had to choose between volleyball and you and I… I wanted to choose _you_.”

“Then why _didn’t_ you?” Hajime finds himself saying, all gruff and hurt, even though he wasn’t supposed to say anything. Tooru tenses around him at the question and his fingers tighten around Hajime’s.

“Because it wasn’t fair to you?” his tone is light and reasonable, completely unlike the body language he is currently exhibiting, “Because, Hajime, it wasn’t just going to be _us_ , you know. You wanted something more and I… I didn’t know _what_ I wanted, except to keep you close, to keep you as mine.”

“I would’ve waited-”

“Exactly. You would’ve done anything for me. You would’ve watched me go out with everyone else _except_ you and you would’ve done it _without_ complaint, because that’s who you _are_. I almost chose Tohokudai because I _wanted_ you to do that too, because I am stupid and so, so goddamned _selfish_ when it comes to you. That’s why I went with Chuo because I thought that the distance would be good for us. Because I thought that I could take a few months and then come back to you with a proper answer.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me this?” Hajime fists his free hand into Tooru’s side, hurt radiating from him, “Why couldn’t you just… _say_ all of that?”

“It scared me, okay?!” Tooru’s voice is high-pitched, “I didn’t want to have to make the decision on our future so I just… I kept putting it off, kept getting scared of seeing you because I didn’t know what I wanted and I knew what _you_ wanted but I didn’t know if _I_ wanted it or not because-”

“Tooru, do you even like men?”

Hajime’s question causes Tooru to make a sound perilously close to something like a dying cat. Any other time, Hajime might be in peals of laughter, but, right now, he just slowly draws back to regard the expression on Tooru’s face – stunned, like he might have been slapped when he was least expecting it.

“I- I-” Tooru stutters and Hajime stares back at him unapologetically.

“It’s a legitimate question,” he says and Tooru nods hurriedly.

“I’m not saying it isn’t!” he gets out the words in a rush, “It’s just… I haven’t been with…”

The next few words are mumbled and Hajime really doesn’t know what to make of it.

“What was that last bit?” Hajime asks and Tooru shrinks away a little.

“I said,” Tooru is louder this time, “I haven’t been with guys, so I can’t really tell.”

Hajime makes to draw back but Tooru doesn’t let him. The way he looks at Hajime is something else, something raw and desperate, so Hajime settles to give him a look of mild exasperation.

“So, then… what was that whole thing at the club, huh?” he asks and Tooru swallows.

“I just,” Tooru coughs and Hajime is a touch gratified to see a faint blush crawl up Tooru’s face and he turns his face away, “I wanted to try, I guess? And then it kind of shocked me because… because Iwa-chan has always been kind of cute, not… _sexy_.”

“Oh?” Hajime laughs, but he doesn’t push.

“Look,” Tooru withdraws his hands from Hajime, folding them into fists, and squares up, indignant, “It’s one thing to, um… _imagine_ something and quite another to see it in action, okay?!”

Hajime clears his throat to hide the second laugh coming on, but Tooru doesn’t look up.

“So… you _imagined_ me?” he asks, watching Tooru duck away further, the flush on his face growing deeper.

“I was curious!” Tooru spits, less angry and more vulnerable, “I couldn’t stop _thinking_ about what it’d be like, with you, and, keep in mind, I didn’t even know _what_ I liked, only that I wanted _something_ with you, and- and- Iwa-chan, now might be a _really_ good time to shut me up with a kiss or something, because this is getting embarrassing-”

“I’m not going to do that,” Hajime says, reaching out to unfurl Tooru’s hands from his lap and twining their fingers together again.

“Ugh,” Tooru groans and rolls his eyes, “I _knew_ you’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like… _talking_ about everything.” He makes a face, “Being mature about our feelings and being honest with each other.”

“Basically things you’re _not_ good at all.” Hajime laughs this time – Tooru _would_ be the kind of guy to distract people from the real issues with sex or something – and Tooru hunches.

“But I wanted to try,” Tooru admits and he looks up to meet Hajime’s eyes, “With you, I am willing to try, if you’ll still have me.”

Tooru’s gaze is steel and grit and his fingers are tight around Hajime’s.

When Hajime doesn’t say anything – primarily because he doesn’t _know_ what to say – Tooru briefly breaks eye contact to lick his lips before meeting Hajime’s eyes again, this time with a familiar glint of determination, the same kind Hajime used to see there when Tooru would be on the court, against an opponent that was at match point, but he’d still be unwilling to concede or waver.

“You _know_ why no one else has lasted this long, Iwa-chan. You _know_ me, you know everything about me and you still wanted me, despite everything. I- I’m not… I’m not a good person, I’m not even a decent person, and you, you still-”

“Tooru,” Hajime interrupts, “Stop putting yourself down-”

“I’m not!” Tooru exclaims, his tone betraying that he was the tiniest bit pleased that Hajime hadn’t run away, “I’m not. These are just… facts, alright? My point is, I can’t show this to anyone else. Everyone else gets to see the good sides but, Iwa-chan, only _you_ get to see everything.”

Hajime’s inhale is sharp and it brings the softest smile to Tooru’s face.

“And, well, this works both ways, doesn’t it?”

Hajime nods quickly, because it _is_ true – they know everything about one another, even with the gaps in time. There’s something freeing about having someone know the darkest sides of you and accept you despite it, or, hell, perhaps _because_ of it.

Tooru’s smile brightens and he leans forward just an infinitesimal amount.

“And,” his voice lowers to a whisper, “I’m better when you’re there; I found out the hard way after you walked away from me. We won Worlds but I wasn’t… _happy_. But, with you, I _was_.”

“Oh,” Hajime’s breath leaves him in a quick rush and this time he spots a quick flash of teeth from Oikawa.

“If I can,” he says, pausing and taking a bracing inhale, “I want to make you happy too, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime stares at him. Tooru leans back to his original position and sits quietly, but it doesn’t take Hajime long to notice the tick in Tooru’s right hand and the way it jerks in nervousness, in insecurity. He’s unsure, Hajime thinks, when he ducks his head to look at Tooru’s hands instead of his face.

He shouldn’t be – Hajime’s answer is as obvious as _day_ – but.

As easy as it would be to just go ahead and let it happen, Hajime feels the need to bring every last thing out in the open. Because, thing is, they’ll just be repeating old patterns now, won’t they?

History stands against them in this regard – it’s not like they haven’t fought. They’ve _always_ fought, regardless of what anyone says. They’re both immovable and stubborn in that, despite Hajime usually being the weaker (or, arguably, more mature) link. But, even though they had those throwdown, blowout fights, they always made up and they did it repeatedly.

Which wouldn’t be a problem if they just _talked_.

It’s tempting, Hajime thinks as he untangles his fingers from Tooru’s. He flips around his right hand and traces the lines on the palm, smiling slightly at the way Tooru shudders openly at his touch. It’s so, so tempting to just give in to the rain outside, give in to the heat of the moment, and press the reset switch like nothing happened. He could pop up and press Tooru’s lips against his own and no one would protest… but.

But.

“Tooru,” Hajime starts and Tooru jolts to attention, almost eager. Hajime rubs his thumb into the dip of Tooru’s palm and hears him hiss at the sensation, “You make me happy, alright? You know that better than anyone else… but,”

“But?” Tooru’s voice is small and unsure and Hajime kind of hates himself for that. He grips Tooru’s hand anyway, this time he being the one drawing strength.

“I was hurt,” Hajime admits and his voice is small too, “You hurt me and all these years I spent thinking that you didn’t want me and- and- I didn’t _blame_ you for it, hell, I _don’t_ blame you for it, Tooru. But, you need to know, I’m not strong when it comes to you. I’m not even rational when it comes to you. I haven’t stepped inside a volleyball court in five years because I _couldn’t._ I rejected the scholarship from Tohokudai because I couldn’t stand the idea of being in a place where everything reminded me of _us_.”

In the hush that gathers as Hajime constructs his next thought, Tooru’s sigh is heavy and steeped in melancholy.

“Oh, _Hajime_ ,” he breathes and Hajime shakes his head to keep him from saying much more.

“Just,” he swallows to moisten his parched throat, “You’re not a _whim_ for me, Tooru. I wasn’t okay all these years and I tried to move forward, I tried to find things that made me happy, things that were mine and mine alone. I saw other people, I slept with other people and, and despite _all_ of that, all of them, something inside me kept missing you.”

At that, Tooru’s posture slackens and falls forward and he gently raises his arms to put them over Hajime’s shoulders. He ducks and rests his forehead against Hajime’s and one quick peek tells Hajime that his eyes are shut. Hajime shuts his own too and basks in the warmth, the simple press of skin on skin and the humidity of exhaled breaths resting in the space between them.

“So,” Hajime continues in the barest whisper, “If you want to leave, you should do it now.”

Tooru’s chuckles are soft but they lack the sting and the mirth.

“You’re not making a good enough argument for it, Hajime,” Tooru murmurs.

“I’m serious, Tooru, just-”

Here, Tooru detaches himself from Hajime and – ignoring the minor moment of panic that Hajime will never, _never_ admit to – he brings his beautiful, perfect hands to frame Hajime’s face and urges him to look up and into his eyes.

Hajime does and he feels the breath knocked out of him because Tooru’s eyes are huge and wet and his smile is so wide, Hajime is suddenly reminded of the time when Tooru had first managed to execute a jump serve when they were nine. He looks exactly like that, Hajime thinks – victorious, exhilarated and absolutely, positively breathtaking.

“You know, if I were younger, I would’ve run by now.” Tooru says, his calloused thumbs tracing the path across Hajime’s cheekbones, “If I were nineteen, twenty, twenty-one and I had heard you say that, I would have run.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because,” one corner of Tooru’s lip quirks up in a sardonic smile, “I now know exactly what it feels like to be without you.”

Hajime is breathless when he asks. “And what does that feel like?”

“Imagine being on the top of the world but unable to feel like you’ve accomplished something.” Tooru tells him, “Younger me would’ve run because he still wasn’t sure what the choice between volleyball and you was.”

“Younger you was kind of an idiot.” Hajime replies automatic and Tooru’s laugh is sharp and quick, and Hajime catches the way his shoulders loosen at the remark, and Tooru leans forward to press their foreheads together again, exhaling in something like relief.

“Yeah,” he says fondly, “But, you know, I thought about it. We couldn’t have worked like this when we were younger, because I would’ve screwed it up one way or another.”

Hajime hums and realizes that it is true – because they’d only ever known each other and Hajime had only ever considered Tooru as his choice and never other people. They’d been too close, and maybe that was the detriment too.

They’d needed to grow up, hadn’t they?

“Are you saying that these five years have been good for us?” Hajime remarks and he feels Tooru nod, wisps of his fringe brushing against Hajime’s forehead.

“I’m saying that whatever happened in the past is worth it if it means that we can have each other now.”

There’s little else that Hajime can say to that except this: “Okay.”

They sit there in silence, just like that – foreheads pressed together, eyes shut, unconsciously syncing the rhythm of their breathing with one another’s. The rain is still beating down outside, swiftly pattering against the glass of the windows. The refrigerator’s compressor hums and the credits are playing softly, barely audible even. Hajime has a distinct urge to pull the blanket over both of their heads so that they could hide under it, pretend like they were the only two people in the world, the way used to when they were kids.

Tooru is the first to move – he draws back a little and when Hajime opens his eyes, Tooru is looking at him through half-lidded eyes, all melted chocolate, from just inches away. Hajime can see the question in them, asked silently and with the same kind of understanding that has always been there between them. He parts his lips in answer and then, Tooru isn’t looking at him at all; his gaze is fixed elsewhere.

“Can I…?” he asks anyway and Hajime finds himself nodding, his breath shuddering, and then Tooru tilts his head and leans in.

It’s not like the first time. It’s just a simple brushing of lips first, then a dry press of them, all closed mouth, the motion so soft and chaste, and Hajime feels himself melt, go all soft and pliant. Tooru moves, parts his own lips too and then draws Hajime’s top lip into his mouth, sucking on it lightly. Hajime responds in kind and does the same to the lower lip, still hesitant, and his hands, sitting uselessly at his sides, move up to hold on to Tooru’s shoulders.

Slow and careful, that’s how Tooru kisses him, like Hajime is one of his high school girlfriends, like he is going to break if Tooru goes any harder. His hands cup Hajime’s face and his fingers trace his cheekbones, then slowly move to the edge of his jaw and go lower, fingering the line of his neck and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. One comes to a rest at the base of his neck, thumb resting against his jugular, while the other plays with the short hairs at the nape, making him shudder at the sensation.

For his part, Hajime lets him do as he pleases, and just surrenders. He’s rarely given up control to anyone; the closest he can think of is that first time with Kiyoko. But he’s never done it with anyone else; not with the random one night stands and he’s hardly ever given it up to Tetsurou either, not even when Tetsurou had him on his front and was pounding into him relentlessly. He gives it to Tooru though; it’s not even a question at this point.

Tooru understands, he divines it from the way Hajime tilts his head back the slightest bit, the way Hajime’s arms sneak their way into the circle of Tooru’s arms, the way Hajime crosses his wrists behind Tooru’s neck and pulls him just a little closer. He understands the message inherently, understands that Hajime is giving himself up and he trusts Tooru to not break him.

That’s when Tooru moves to tug on bottom lip, the bite a steady pressure of teeth and strangely gentle. He pulls back to suck in a breath of air before diving back in, this time the tip of his tongue tracing out the ridges making up Hajime’s lip, the seam of them. Hajime opens up and lets Tooru lick into his mouth, lets him map out the back of his teeth, and lets him hear that small sound, very akin to a whimper, escape from his throat when Tooru’s tongue skims over the roof of his mouth.

He cards his fingers into Tooru’s hair, still damp from the bath, and presses him closer, tilts his own head further so that he can kiss him back better. In response, Tooru settles his hands on Hajime’s hips and urges him forward, and keeps pulling till Hajime has settled in his lap. It’s a little strange for him to be the one bending down to reach for Tooru, but then he feels Tooru’s smile against his lips, feels his tongue curl around Hajime’s, and he forgets the rest, and just loses himself till there’s nothing but Tooru.

There are far too many embarrassing noises escaping Hajime’s throat – pants and sighs and desperate little groans, all elicited by the way Tooru kisses him, thoroughly and deliberately, tracing the inside of Hajime’s mouth with a meticulousness that slowly fuzzes out the rest of the world, and the only thing keeping him grounded is the way Tooru’s fingers are resting at the base of his spine, drawing little circles on his skin.

“ _Tooru_ ,” Hajime whines, when they break apart for air, and Tooru just licks at Hajime’s spit-slick lips with deft little strokes, each breath on his wet lips making him shiver.

“Shh…” he answers, his voice soft, and he reaches up to bite the edge of Hajime’s jaw, running his tongue over the skin. He kisses the underside of the jaw, and then moves to press one behind Hajime’s ear. His lips ghost his neck lightly, almost like they aren’t there at all, and Hajime squirms at the tease. Tooru laughs softly, and lightly nudges him with his chin.

“Will you let me take care of you, Hajime?” he asks, his voice hoarse and a little hopeful, and Hajime just nods frantically. Tooru laughs again, nosing Hajime’s nape, “Eager, hm?”

“You know exactly how much, asshole.” Hajime snaps back, his voice too tightly wound to be any real threat.

“I know, I know,” he answers, burrowing his face in Hajime’s neck, “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Hajime finds himself voicing a _you’d better_ before he can think about it and Tooru huffs in amusement again, reaching up to swallow down any other retorts before Hajime can even think about making them. It’s still slow, still languid and lazy, but deep too – now that Tooru is running his tongue against Hajime’s own – and it’s almost as if Tooru is trying to hold on to this moment, trying to remember what it was like, this. Hajime twists his fingers in Tooru’s hair and sucks on Tooru’s tongue, trying to take back some of his own, and the groan Tooru makes vibrates on their lips, makes Hajime pull him closer.

“Bed?” Tooru pants between breaths and Hajime murmurs a too needy _Please_ before he can think better of it. And, really, he can’t even blame himself for it; he feels too hot, feels like it’s too _much_ , and it’s, paradoxically, not enough at the same time. It’s nothing like he’s imagined – partly because he _hasn’t_ imagined it; because there was no sense in pining for something you _know_ you can’t have.

Except… except it was just once, that one moment of weakness, the last two times he’d slept with Tetsurou; once drunk and then stone cold sober the next morning. That morning… Hajime pretends that he doesn’t remember it, pretends he doesn’t remember Tetsurou pushing him onto his back and _worshipping_ him, pretends that he hadn’t closed his eyes and imagined it was Tooru the entire time – Tooru, touching him like he was spun of porcelain; Tooru, sinking into him carefully; Tooru, wrecking him apart with every slow movement of his hips. And he’d bitten his lips and turned his face away too, tried to keep every needy little _Tooru_ inside the confines of his throat – because this wasn’t Tooru, this was _Tetsurou_ – and that’s why he’d put on his clothes and run away. Because, this little fantasy had shattered and left reality in its wake, a reality where Tooru didn’t want him.

Hajime opens his eyes and then sucks in a harsh breath because, _oh_ , this isn’t a fantasy at all, is it now?

Tooru meets his eyes and smiles, just a soft, upward curve of his lip, before lightly nuzzling their noses together.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice touching a low register that Hajime hadn’t thought he’d ever hear.

“What do _you_ want?” Hajime tosses back and he hopes that the insecure edge in his voice can’t be heard.

“Everything.” Tooru replies baldly, instantly soothing the nerves in Hajime’s belly, “Told you, didn’t I? I want this, all of this, so I’m just making you choose what we do first.”

“First?” Hajime echoes faintly, certain that he sounds way past stunned. Tooru chuckles lightly and then his fingers are circling Hajime’s biceps, gripping them through his sleeves, as if for emphasis.

“See, I’ve already thought of things to try out.” Tooru tells him nonchalantly, sounding for all the world like he’s talking about the weather, “I want you to use _these_ ,” he squeezes Hajime’s arms pointedly, “To pick me up and fuck me against a wall.” Hajime’s breath hitches, but Tooru’s already continuing, his mind running off with him, “I definitely want to try blowing you in the men’s room someday too, I’ve heard it’s quite the experience… oh, and I really, _really_ want you to dance for me, _privately_ and preferably while stripping slowly because, _fuck_ , Hajime – do you have any idea what you look like when you dance?”

“Tooru,” Hajime writhes, his breath leaving him in harsh pants and he’s already hard – how could he _not_ be? – and the things that Tooru is saying are literally making his toes curl from their intentions.

“Just,” Tooru murmurs these words into Hajime’s neck, lips scraping against his skin each time he speaks, “ _God_ , I wanted you, _so_ badly… I didn’t even know. And then I saw you there, on the dance floor, moving, and- you know something, Hajime? You _were_ right – I _was_ jealous of those girls. How could I not be?”

“ _Tooru_ ,” Hajime groans, too urgent, when Tooru pinches a bit of skin between his teeth. Hajime jolts in his lap and, fuck, now Tooru can _definitely_ feel the reaction Hajime’s having to these words.

Tooru whispers the next bit right into his ear, lips brushing the ear lobe with how close he is. “I saw the way people looked at you. I saw it and I wanted to _break_ them for ever daring to lay their eyes on you. I didn’t even know I needed you that badly till that very moment… and, you _know_ I act like a shit and throw a tantrum when things don’t go my way. You were right, it would’ve just been a quick fuck and, this is why we are perfect together, no? You balance me, you keep me grounded and I…” Here, Tooru draws back and looks him right in the eyes, serious and determined, “I want to do this right. So tell me what you want, okay?”

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Hajime blurts, so far gone that he doesn’t even care to curb the neediness in his voice, “We can do the rest later, but, right now, I really, really need you to fuck me.”

Tooru’s smile is sharp when he speaks right against Hajime’s lips, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And then he’s kissing him and it’s nowhere near as slow as before, but then Tooru pulls back quickly, laughing fondly when Hajime involuntarily chases his lips. “Weren’t we supposed to go to bed?”

“You’re the one who started talking,” Hajime tells him, pressing a kiss to the corner of Tooru’s mouth, feeling it lift in a smile, “And it’s just a futon, idiot,”

“It’s an expression,” Tooru tells him with a laugh and then experimentally slides his hands under Hajime’s thighs, “Want me to carry you to bed?”

“What, and watch you fail and ruin the mood?” Hajime parries back, “And call it a futon already.”

“Your lack of faith in me – a professional athlete, mind you – is very disappointing, Iwa-chan.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Hajime firmly wraps his legs – legs that were previously sprawled on either side of Tooru’s hips – around Tooru’s waist, then locks his ankles and pulls himself closer to Tooru, tucking his face in his neck, “Give it your best shot with those limp noodle arms.”

He can’t see him, but he can hear the pout in Tooru’s voice. “ _Mean_ ,”

And then, he’s being lifted, and Tooru makes a grunt when he takes Hajime’s full weight. Hajime exhales harshly himself because, with each step, his hardened length rubs against Tooru, and Tooru is not making it easier either – because he keeps pressing his lips to the line of Hajime’s shoulder, biting through Hajime’s sweatshirt to make him feel it. Hajime doesn’t know why he is surprised – Tooru always gets obsessive when he gets his mind fixed on something and he doesn’t stop prodding till he’s satisfied.

His hands too – one moves to unashamedly squeeze Hajime’s ass and Hajime jolts at the unexpectedness of it, earning a warm, satisfied chuckle from Tooru.

“You’re such trash,” Hajime grouses.

“Mm… can you blame me though?” Tooru replies, just the slightest bit winded from the effort of carrying a fully grown man across his apartment, “Have you ever seen yourself?”

“Are you saying I was asking for it?”

“I don’t know about that but I am _definitely_ asking for it,” Tooru tells him and Hajime can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Ass.”

“Yes, want yours,” Tooru shoots back, without even missing a beat, and then squeezes one ass cheek for emphasis.

“God, why are you so embarrassing?” Hajime groans, burying his face further into Tooru’s nape, feeling the vibrations of Tooru’s laughter against his own chest.

“Please,” Tooru says and then Hajime realizes that he has reached the bedroom. Tooru kicks the door open, then leans forward to press Hajime against it, “I’m never embarrassing.”

Hajime leans back to rest his head on the wood. “You always _are_ ,”

Tooru just looks up once, then lowers his head to nip the line of Hajime’s neck, making his way up the jaw with soft little bites and licks, holding Hajime’s eyes the entire time. He kisses the corner of Hajime’s mouth and murmurs against his lips, “Am not,” and then he stops that argument by pulling Hajime’s lower lip into his mouth and sucking on it.

This time, Hajime is the one to slide his hands up Tooru’s long, graceful neck to cup his face, and a soft sound of approval leaves Tooru. He maps the contours of Tooru’s face with his fingers, still reeling from the fact that he’s allowed to do this now. He pushes the fringe up and back from Tooru’s forehead, runs his fingers over the scalp to grip the back of his head and pulls him closer. Tooru tilts his head further in response, fits himself better against Hajime’s mouth and then, because Tooru has always been unpredictable, he rolls his hips up once, decisive, and smiles at the surprised gasp that Hajime makes.

“ _Fuck_ , Tooru,” Hajime says, unable to make any more words, considering that – by the feel of it – Tooru is aroused against him too. Tooru hums in response, placing another lingering, close-mouthed kiss that leaves his lips tingling and buzzed, before he withdraws and then takes a couple of steps forward, laying down Hajime on his unfurled – and messy – futon carefully.

“How was _that_ for ‘limp noodle arms’?” he whispers, leaning down to knock their foreheads together.

“Five out of seven.” Hajime tells him and Tooru giggles with a _what does that even mean_. Hajime shrugs.

He looks up when Tooru’s giggles fade out and opens his eyes fully, and Tooru is hovering over him, face slack and wearing something awfully close to awe. Hajime feels himself color at the scrutiny, the way Tooru’s eyes sweep down his body, the way they catalogue Hajime’s rucked up sweatshirt and fixate on the tent in his pants. He has the sudden urge to cross his arms and legs, because the way Tooru takes him in is positively _ravenous_ and Tooru swallows, breathes through his nose carefully as he watches Hajime.

“Where is…?” he asks but he’s talking to Hajime’s kiss swollen lips instead, sinking his teeth into his own lip as he looks.

“Desk, bottom drawer,” Hajime obediently supplies, then licks his lips and considers, watching Tooru’s eyes follow the path of his tongue. He swallows, “Don’t bother with the condoms.”

Tooru, who’s begun angling towards the desk, pauses and stares down at Hajime.

“I-” Hajime looks away, fully aware that his face is redder than it has ever been, “I’m clean. Always been careful.” Which is true, because he’s always practiced safe sex – no one needed the complications.

“Are-” Tooru swallows, his voice strangled, “Are you sure?”

Hajime nods once, quick. “Need you inside me tonight. Need to- fuck, I can’t believe you’re making me say such pathetic shit. I need to feel you, alright? I need _you_ -”

And then Tooru is using one hand to turn Hajime’s face towards him and diving into his mouth without any pretenses, licking and sucking fervently, like he can’t get enough. He bores himself down on Hajime, presses them chest to chest, hip to hip, and he grinds down against Hajime’s groin, unsubtle and unapologetic.

“You-” he pants, peppering kisses all over Hajime’s face, “You just- every word you say, everything you _do_ , and it’s like I’m finding these things that I didn’t even know I liked-”

Hajime shudders through an exhale, running his hands up Tooru’s back, feeling the solidity of his muscles through the cloth, and then rocks up into Tooru, gasping when their erections brush and send sparks skittering up his spine.

“God, _Hajime_ ,” Tooru moans into his mouth, “Can I come inside you?”

“That _is_ the idea.” Hajime answers and then Tooru goes taut, his breath stuttering, his mouth latched on Hajime’s and Hajime swallows down the gasps and whimpers he makes. Fine tremors run down his back and the way he kisses Hajime is downright desperate. He detaches himself from Hajime and takes in rapid gulps of air, chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon.

Hajime blinks.

“Did- Did you just…?” he trails off and Tooru just gives him a sated smile in return, nuzzling the side of Hajime’s face.

“Whoops,” he laughs, “Looks like our plans will have to wait for… ten minutes?”

“Are you serious right now,” Hajime says and Tooru pouts at him.

“Hey, it’s not _my_ fault,” he replies, defensive, and then moves to press a kiss to Hajime’s cheek, “It’s just _you_ and I didn’t even know I wanted that till half a minute ago. You make me feel like an insatiable teenager right now, I swear,”

“Sure you’re not just inexperienced?” Hajime asks, a touch annoyed since he’s left hanging, but also flattered by the way Tooru’s pajamas are damp because of _him_.

“I’ll have you know that I have a literal fanclub, Iwaizumi Hajime-san,” Tooru replies snottily, “How dare you insinuate that I haven’t-”

“Okay, firstly – don’t call me that; it’s weird. And secondly – shut up, _God-_ ”

“Your wish is my command!” Tooru perks up with a grin and a peace sign, then gingerly moves towards the drawers to get the lube and, after a moment, he withdraws the tissues too.

Hajime is about to laugh when Tooru abruptly whips off his sweatshirt, and then the sound dies in his chest, because Tooru is _beautiful_. There’s really no other word for it – his skin is pale and smooth and cut with muscles that are leaner than Hajime’s, but no less strong. It’s unblemished, his back, save for a faint scar on his left shoulder – a relic from when he’d fallen from a bicycle when they were eight – and a bruise on his side, presumably from practice.

He shucks off the pants then, pushing them down and stepping out of them, and promptly kicking them to one side. Just like that, he’s right there, in all his naked glory, and Hajime is reminded of Aoba Jousai’s locker rooms, when he’d avert his gaze because seeing Tooru, all sweat-slicked and flushed after practice, made him want to lick the salt from his skin. He doesn’t look away now – he’s just too stunned to. His gaze runs from Tooru’s feet and up, up his long, long legs and he remembers them being teenagers and remembers Tooru being lanky and unsure on his feet, very akin to a new born foal, remembers thinking that he was still so beautiful, even then.

He _is_ good-looking, there’s no question about that. There’s a reason girls throw themselves at him – Tooru is the kind of handsome that made people do double takes everywhere he went and for good reason too. Hajime is just mesmerized, stuck, and his eyes run almost hungrily over Tooru’s form, watching the muscles under his skin flex and move as he cleans himself up. His eyes eventually come to rest on the ass – bouncy and muscled and just perfect, exactly as one would expect from someone who played sports for a living. He thinks about the times he’d seen them in those tiny volleyball shorts and wondered exactly how they’d fit into his hands, and he wants to touch just so _badly_ , his hands actually clench on thin air.

Tooru turns in increments – the head first angling backwards before his shoulder follows the motion and his ankle turns at ninety degrees, before he swings himself around to face Hajime. He looks down at Hajime and his eyes are intense, focused, but his mouth his turned down in disapproval.

Before insecurity can take hold, Tooru speaks, “As amazing as you look right now, I’d rather you not touch yourself,” and then his lips stretch in a leer, “That’s _my_ job.”

Hajime just jolts because he hadn’t even realized he’d begun palming himself through his pajamas, too fixed on Tooru to really think of anything else. He stops then, licks his lips once.

“Give me something else to touch then,” he tells Tooru hoarsely and Tooru obliges, tossing a bottle – the lube – on to the futon and then he descends, minding his knee when Hajime gives him a pointed look. Hajime opens up his arms and Tooru comfortably fits himself in the embrace, locking their lips once again, all hungry.

Hajime doesn’t stop himself – he runs his hands all over that muscled back, up the strong arms and down the sides, carefully avoiding the spots he remembered were ticklish. Tooru moans against him, appreciative, and then repeats it when Hajime sweeps his hands over the swell of his ass.

“We need to get you out of these,” Tooru murmurs into his mouth, tugging on his sweatshirt, and he detaches himself from Hajime. Hajime is too wanting to be ashamed of the betrayed noise he makes when Tooru stops kissing him and he doesn’t even parry against the _so cute_ Tooru coos at him.

“Still here, baby,” he assures him and Hajime bites down on his lip at the endearment, “You’ll have to work pretty hard to get me to leave this time.”

“Tooru, just-” and Hajime cuts himself off, bites down on the words, because then Tooru is running his hand up Hajime’s front, the hem of his sweatshirt fisted in his hands. He’s fixed and focused, staring blatantly at every inch of skin that is revealed, and Hajime can feel the weight of his stare like it’s a tangible thing. He throws the garment away in a corner of the room once he’s coaxed it over Hajime’s head, and then he pulls the pajamas down, hands sweeping down to follow the length of his legs, all the way down to his ankles.

“How do you like it?” he asks huskily, eyes roaming all over Hajime’s skin, and the open appraisal makes Hajime’s cock twitch and leak some more.

“Wh-What?”

Tooru drapes himself over Hajime’s side, leaning down to kiss him once, soft and quick, before he assertively closes his fingers around Hajime’s hardened length.

Hajime bucks into it, he really can’t help it. He’s sensitive and hasn’t actually been properly touched even once, and this _is_ Tooru… so all Hajime can really do is hold on to Tooru’s arm while the fingers of his other hand fist themselves in the sheets.

“How do you want me to touch you?” Tooru clarifies and this time against Hajime’s clavicle, sounding so raw and wrecked, it was like _he_ was the one in Hajime’s position.

“Don’t _care_ , just- just- _anything,_ ” Hajime pants out and Tooru moves his hand, palming his cock deftly. Through half-lidded eyes, Hajime can see him staring at his face, studying it for reactions, to see what Hajime likes. His thumb circles the head, dips into the slit, and then there is Tooru, biting his collarbone with the intention to leave marks. It’s all enough, the attention – Tooru’s attention – it’s enough, and then Hajime is spurting all over Tooru’s fingers, back bowing as he calls out for Tooru.

“Shh… I’ve got you,” Tooru whispers, lips brushing his temple, one hand still working him, “You were so good, you looked _so_ good, Hajime.”

Hajime tries to catch his breath and squirms to dislodge Tooru’s hold, given that he’s oversensitive in his afterglow. Tooru obliges, then moves to clean him up quickly, before throwing the tissues aside and fitting his mouth against Hajime’s again, slow and deliberate.

He loves this. He loves the way Tooru’s weight feels over him, the way his hands run over him, mapping out the planes of his body, near reverent. He loves the way Tooru feels under his fingers, warm and solid and so achingly _real_ , Hajime still can’t quite swallow that this is happening. He’s still waiting, he realizes, for the other shoe to drop, to wake up and realize that he’s still in his lonely little apartment, dreaming up things he can’t have.

Of course he could never quite manage to erase Tooru from his heart – it was impossible. Tooru was the very foundation of it, to cast him out would mean casting Hajime’s entire heart out. He loves him; _God_ , it’s a little insane how much he does. Hajime presses him closer, tilts his head back better, opens himself up and just _gives_ Tooru everything.

And Tooru, he gives back – keeps whispering praises that Hajime never knew he needed to hear, keeps telling him that he’s here, that he’s _here_ , that this is all very real.

“I need you,” Hajime tells him between kisses, “I need you to fuck me, right _now_.”

Tooru just groans in response and tries to press closer, even though there is virtually no distance between them.

Hajime can’t quite stop blabbering and he’s so far gone, he can’t even make proper sentences. He talks in fragments, mouthing the words against Tooru’s jaw, “Make me feel it till next _week_ , God- the rest of my _life_ \- I don’t even care just, fuck- _Tooru_ ,”

“Hajime you-” Tooru breathes harshly, turning back to plant another hard kiss, lips smacking, “You just-” and Tooru doesn’t say anything more; preferring instead to focus on sliding down Hajime’s torso, biting and licking and sucking every bit of salted skin he could. He mouths Hajime’s peaked nipples, licking over them with sure strokes, lightly scraping them with a hint of teeth, and Hajime can feel him smile when Hajime hisses in response and shivers against the sensation of air hitting wet skin. He counts out the spaces between Hajime’s ribs and runs his hands down Hajime’s cut abdomen in silent admiration, before trailing his tongue down the sparse line of dark hair and Hajime’s heart pounds so hard in his chest, he feels just a hair’s breadth away from passing out.

Tooru reaches out for the bottle of lube and then sits up, staring at Hajime with intense concentration.

“Pillow,” he says, pulling one close, then urges Hajime to lift his hips up and slides it into place, “I’ve read it’s more comfortable that way,” At Hajime’s confused look, he rolls his eyes and reaches up to kiss the underside of his jaw sweetly, “Don’t think, just… let me.”

“Okay, I-” Hajime sucks in a bracing breath, “Okay.”

Tooru smiles at him briefly before turning his attention to his thighs, his long fingers curving around them as he trails his hands down, down to the knee, then lifts up his legs. He coaxes his legs apart with a gentle push, spreading them open till there’s enough space for Tooru to kneel between them.

It’s not like this is the first time Hajime has spread his legs for anyone, but it is the first time he’s downright mortified by the scrutiny of his bed partner. Hajime hadn’t really cared for anyone else’s opinion as much nor had he ever just given that much control to anyone else. He wants to curl up under a blanket and make Tooru stop _looking_ at him, but, fuck, it _is_ flattering, the way Tooru watches him, careful, cataloging and noting every little reaction he’s been having; it’s almost like he’s watching a volleyball match and ferreting out the ways to break an opponent’s guard.

Tooru runs the flat of his palm over Hajime’s thighs, stroking carefully, soothingly, almost like he wants to leech out the tension with his touch. Hajime obliges, letting his thighs fall apart and forcing himself to relax, not belying the nervousness crowding in his chest, and his compliance earns him a soft hum of approval.

Then, Tooru looks up and their eyes meet.

Hajime wants to look away because- because that _look_ in Tooru’s face – eyes warm, smile soft, expression almost helpless – it’s nothing he’s ever seen directed at him, and he can't label it anything other than pure adoration. His fingers clench onto the sheets beneath him, all to grab something solid to hold on to, because of how badly that single look shakes him, down to his very core.

He’s not good at being vulnerable – he never has been – and he is about to turn his head away, pretend that there isn’t a splotchy flush covering him, that he isn’t shuddering from sheer want, when-

“Don’t look away,” Tooru says softly.

Hajime does anyway – it’s all too much. He turns and closes his eyes, clamps them tight.

Tooru reaches up rest his hand on one cheek and turns his head back, thumb rubbing at the corner of his eye.

“Watch me.” He tells him, “Watch me and don’t look away, because I want you to see this. I _need_ you to see this.”

Hajime opens his eyes the faintest bit which, given by the way Tooru presses an off-center kiss to his lips, is enough. Tooru withdraws to get back into his old position, running his hands over Hajime’s thighs again, still soothing, because he’s tensed up again. He relaxes himself in increments, listens to Tooru make comforting noises, and then there is a click of something being uncapped.

“Listen to me,” Tooru says and Hajime looks, watches him flinch a little at the sensation of cold lube hitting his fingers. Tooru rubs his fingers together and uses one hand to hold Hajime open, “You know I doubt myself more than anyone else; I always have. But, remember this – I have never once doubted _you_.” He runs one finger over Hajime’s crease, rubbing his fingers along the rim and it’s nothing, but it already _feels_ too much and a quiet cry rips itself from Hajime’s throat. Tooru leans and brushes a soft kiss to the inside of one knee, “Watch me, because I never want you to doubt this; I never want you to doubt _us_ again.”

With that, Tooru presses one long index finger inside.

Hajime’s chest shakes, his breath leaves him like it’s been compressed out of his lungs. The intrusion is uncomfortable – it always is at first – and Tooru lets it rest there first, still watching Hajime with that intense, unnerving focus. That’s when Hajime realizes that he’s waiting for a signal.

“ _Move_.” Hajime tells him and Tooru does with a huffed _Bossy_.

He’s still too slow though, the way he slides his fingers in and out, shallowly. At first Hajime thinks it’s because he’s unsure, because Tooru hasn’t actually slept with a man before, but then Hajime looks and his hands are trembling – not from nerves but from _anticipation_ , because that way he’s biting his lips, the way he is hotly eyeing his own fingers – presumably watching them disappear inside Hajime’s ass – cannot be anything else.

“Put another in,” Hajime says, his voice too airy to be a demand.

Tooru glances up, his finger still moving almost torturously slow inside Hajime. “Are you sure? You’re still too tight, I read that-”

“I don’t care what-” Hajime bursts out, too aroused and desperate to care how impatient he sounds – and wasn’t _that_ a hilarious role-reversal, the normally patient Hajime being the petulant, impatient one? – And that’s when he blinks, because it hits him, “You read what?”

“Of course I did my research,” he replies, haughty. Hajime almost laughs because, of course he did. Tooru never went into situations without a full playbook; he never even _watched_ movies without thoroughly reading up on them first.

“You did?” he smiles instead and Tooru’s eyes twinkle, telling Hajime that he’s said the right thing. He withdraws his fingers and drizzles more lube over them, before diving back in with that solitary finger.

“Thought about you, like this,” Tooru says, still moving too slow, “Thought about what it’d be like to have you, under me,” he leans forward and catches his teeth on one pectoral, right near where Hajime’s heart is hammering against his chest, and Hajime doesn’t even know if he’s done it on purpose, “Thought about what you’d look like with my fingers inside you, fucking you open,” and he slides in another finger, when he says that, “Wanted to make you _scream_ till you know nothing but me because- because-”

He doesn’t finish and his fingers still when Hajime pulls his head close, leans up a little to kiss him, drinks the rest of the words from his lips. He pushes his tongue inside because he wants to taste Tooru so _bad_ , but Tooru doesn’t let him – he keeps the kiss light, gentle, drawing away when Hajime makes to move forward and chuckles when Hajime makes an annoyed sound.

“Patience,” he laughs, “Let me do this right.”

“Then don’t fucking _talk_ to me like that,” Hajime retorts, stomach clenching when Tooru goes particularly deep, but his fingers still aren’t stretching him out, they’re still too gentle, “Tooru, _God_ , at least _move_ your fucking fingers,”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Tooru replies in a small voice and he stops moving entirely when he looks up to meet Hajime’s eyes.

There’s worry and insecurity in his face, lurking just beneath surface. Hajime doesn’t know what else to do, but to cradle Tooru’s face in his hands.

“You won’t,” he assures him, “I won’t break if you go harder, okay?”

Tooru exhales a laugh, something self-deprecating.

“You are the strongest person I know,” He says softly, like he’s telling Hajime a secret. Then he blinks rapidly, like he’s registering something and he laughs again, lighter this time. “You are the strongest person I know.” He repeats, this time in wonder.

Hajime bites down on his lip and exhales shakily, touched by the way Tooru’s looks at him, and he lets go of Tooru’s flushed face after glancing his fingers across his cheeks.

“Are you going to fuck me with your fingers properly now?” Hajime asks him, tilting his hips up slightly, inviting, and then knotting his fingers on the sheets below him, “I told you,” and here Hajime lets his voice go lower, huskier, so maddeningly aroused is he, “I want to feel you for a _week_.”

Tooru actually whines at that. “ _Fuck_ , you’re just- fuck, Hajime,”

Hajime pointedly clenches around the fingers. “Get to it already,” he tells him.

Tooru does, but only after his breath hitches in surprise at the sudden pressure. He returns his focus to what his fingers are doing, his face taking on that familiar look of concentration, and he goes harder this time, though it’s still too deliberate. He scissors his digits this time and Hajime feels that familiar burn of the rim stretching before the sensation plateaus and goes away, and then all that remains is that sense of fullness.

“This is okay, right?” Tooru asks, twisting his fingers.

“ _Yes_ ,” Hajime groans, so blown out he feels.

“Hm.” Tooru responds and Hajime recognizes it the noise he used to make when he was dissatisfied with the end result of a serve and felt like there was still more to be done.

His free hand glides down Hajime’s side and he pauses when his fingers reach his hips. He rubs his thumb on one bony hipbone, considering, then leans forward to scrape his teeth over it out of curiosity. His brow furrows further, still dissatisfied, even when a tiny little _ah_ escapes through Hajime’s lips before he can stifle it. Then, he lowers himself and Hajime’s eyes fly open at the sudden tickling sensation on the inside of his thighs, caused by Tooru’s hair. Because Tooru’s head is suddenly between his legs.

But instead of closing his mouth around Hajime’s length, he bites the inside of his thigh.

At the sharp inhale from Hajime, he bites harder and sucks, and Hajime can feel the bruise blooming and he kicks reflexively.

“Next time,” Tooru promises darkly; pressing kisses to the other leg, lips brushing with every word he enunciates, “Next time I’ll suck you so well, you’ll forget everyone else who’s ever touched you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hajime exhales and Tooru marks the inside of the other thigh as well, before abruptly curling his fingers.

This time, there is no stifling his strangled moan, no stopping the way his back arches or the way his fingers twist in the sheets when he clenches them. Tooru whips his head up and looks at him, a little excited.

“Was that it?” he asks, all wide-eyed and delighted, “Did I find it?”

But he doesn’t give Hajime the chance to reply; he quickly curls his fingers again, pressing around experimentally before glancing along the bundle of nerves again, making electricity go zinging up Hajime’s spine, making his cock leak over his own stomach. Tooru catches on quick, which is why he purposely brushes the spot with every thrust of his fingers, his delight melting into hunger and his eyes glazing over as he watches Hajime fall apart, watches him lurch with every stroke, watches him thrust back into those long, beautiful fingers instinctively.

“You look _so_ good like this,” Tooru tells him, leaning forward and adding a third finger this time, “So fucking gorgeous, Hajime.”

“Get in me, _now_.” Hajime replies and Tooru stills, eyes fluttering rapidly and a little stunned. He shakes his head in refusal and Hajime is too far gone to be embarrassed by the whine he makes.

“Let me prepare you _properly_ for one thing,” he says, sounding like he’s telling himself that, “You’re not stretched out enough-”

“You’re taking too fucking _long_ ,” Hajime complains, “I’m just _ah_ -” he gasps when Tooru presses his fingers on his prostrate, interrupting Hajime’s spiel and making his toes curl, “I want to come with you _inside_ me – _oh_ , you asshole – and at the rate you’re going, that’s definitely not going to happen, so you’d better- Jesus _fuck-_ ”

Tooru bites his lip, his thrusts becoming more rapid – thank _God_ – and he looks like he’s desperately trying to tune out Hajime, the way his throat works and he swallows every time a particularly lewd sound or a desperate curse leaves Hajime’s mouth.

“ _Please_ ,” Hajime begs eventually, “Just- _hah_ \- I need you, Tooru, _please_ -”

This time, Tooru looks up and his expression is wild – pupils blown, hair disheveled from where Hajime’s been running his fingers in them, bright white teeth contrasting against the puffy red, kiss-bitten lips. His breathing is harsh, chest heaving with each inhale, and he withdraws his fingers, leaving Hajime loose and empty. He jolts a little at the sound Hajime makes and looks a touch distraught by the wince on his face, but Hajime simply mouths an unashamed, needy _fuck me_.

“God, just-” Tooru’s breath hitches, “Unfair, Iwa-chan. You play _dirty_.”

Hajime would’ve shrugged were he not feeling too loose to do anything.

“Whatever gets you inside me already,” Hajime pants, managing a smile.

Tooru gives him an exasperated look before his face softens and then he leans forward, latching his mouth on to the base of Hajime’s neck. He laps up the sweat there, scrapes his teeth on his Adam’s apple briefly, before looking up to meet Hajime’s half-lidded eyes.

It’s the way he looks at him – just so much goddamned _awe_ in his face, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing – that sends a shiver through Hajime. Tooru’s mouth curls up at one corner and then he leans in slowly, pushing his lips against Hajime’s gently, too gently, like Hajime is made of porcelain – like if he goes too hard, Hajime will shatter. Hajime’s hands automatically reach up to grab Tooru’s shoulders. He makes a pathetic little whimper and softly opens up for Tooru, and makes that noise _again_ when Tooru feels around the inside of his mouth carefully. He can’t really help it – the gentleness, the intimacy of the moment, it’s overloading Hajime’s senses and it’s too much, too _painful_.

“Please,” Hajime murmurs when Tooru detaches himself from him with a pop.

“Okay,” he concedes, softly brushing his lips against Hajime’s once more, swallowing down the gasp he makes, “Okay.”

There’s a moment of indecision when Tooru reaches out for the lube and flicks open the cap with his thumb.

“Are you sure about,” Tooru fidgets a little, glancing at the desk once, “Protection?”

Hajime nods, a little too frantically. “Yes, _yes_ ,” he blinks when he looks at Tooru’s furrowed brow, “Unless… unless you don’t want to?”

Tooru immediately relaxes and nods too quickly. “I do! I do… just checking.”

“Oh,” Hajime relaxes too, then shakes his head, “I won’t say something like that if I don’t mean it.”

“I know,” Tooru says, “Stupid of me to forget.” He turns his head to where Hajime’s hands are still resting and nuzzles his wrist, “Solid like the very foundation of the universe; that’s my Iwa-chan.”

Hajime’s eyes widen and he’s glad that the warmth crawling up his face at the praise cannot be distinguished from the flush that’s already there. “I’m really not-”

“Oh, but you are.” Tooru answers, regarding Hajime out of the side of his eye, “For me, at least. I meant it, you know, when I’d tell you that you were my pillar. Because you were. You _are_. You keep me grounded, you always have. I’m honestly quite useless without you to balance me out, you know.”

Hajime doesn’t know what sort of a face he’s making but it makes Tooru smile regardless.

“Now, remember that for me, will you?” he says, closing his teeth around the wrist to give it an affectionate nip before withdrawing and letting Hajime’s arms drop. Tooru slicks up himself up and wipes off the excess lube onto the sheets, tossing the bottle aside carelessly, before he turns his full attention to Hajime.

“Relax, alright?” he tells Hajime, and then grabs his hip with one hand and his own cock with the other and aligns himself with Hajime’s entrance.

“I trust you.” Hajime replies, voicing the thought out for the first time in a long time. Tooru smiles, genuine and grateful, and then it turns wicked and he deliberately rubs the head against the rim, making Hajime inhale sharply.

“Don’t tease, you bastard,” Hajime grouses, tilting his hips upwards almost unconsciously, and Tooru just laughs, then begins pushing inside.

The sudden stretch of the head makes Hajime gasp and tears spring up at the corners of his eyes from the burn. Tooru goes slow, pausing frequently, biting his lip in concentration, and Hajime tries to remember this – how it felt to have Tooru slide inside him, to be so utterly _connected_ with him, so much so that they were essentially one. It’s only once he is fully seated in him that Tooru lets out a wrecked sound, panting heavily. He looks between them, his lower lip jutting out a little as he figures out the logistics, then he hooks his elbows under Hajime’s knees and pushes them towards Hajime’s chest.

He gives Hajime a brief, searching look, then leans forward to kiss him.

“You’re so _tight_ ,” he tells him with an edge in his voice, their lips brushing softly, and Tooru holds himself still, waiting for Hajime to adjust around his warm and pulsating girth, “You feel so amazing, Hajime.”

“Move already,” Hajime leans up to suck on the bow of Tooru’s upper lip, to tongue the dip in between, and locks his ankles behind Tooru’s back.

“Are you sure?” Tooru asks, despite the fact that he’s practically vibrating with how badly he wants to move, “Don’t you need more time-”

“I’m sure, God- please just _move,_ Tooru-”

And that’s all it takes for Tooru to draw back and quickly snap his hips forward, once. A gasp leaves Hajime’s lips and his fingers reflexively clench on the sheets and Tooru stares at him, wide eyed, and then repeats the motion. He looks openly pleased when Hajime groans and tilts his head back, exposing the line of neck.

“That was okay, right?” Tooru asks, a tad unnecessarily and Hajime clenches around him in answer, smiling with satisfaction when Tooru eats an inhale.

“That was okay then.” Tooru affirms breathlessly and then draws back to thrust into Hajime once again.

The pace Tooru sets is slow and unhurried, and it gives Hajime enough time to fully savor the slide of Tooru’s length against his insides. The drag of friction, so deliberate; it leaves Hajime breathless and panting, makes him curl his fingers into Tooru’s hair to anchor himself. He tries to change tempo to something faster but Tooru doesn’t let him – he just kisses him gently and smiles when Hajime’s fingers knot in his hair in frustration.

“I told you,” Hajime groans when Tooru changes the angle and finds his prostrate once again, laughing delightedly and rubbing his head into it deliberately, “Make me fucking _feel_ it.”

“As you wish,” Tooru says amiably, then drops one of the legs he was supporting, pulls out and presses back in _hard_. Hajime loosens his hands from his hair and drops onto grip his strong shoulders from the shock of it. Tooru smiles smugly when he takes in Hajime’s widened eyes and leans forward to brace one hand beside his head.

“Felt that?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Feeling contrary, Hajime presses his lips to the self-satisfied smirk and tugs on his bottom lip with teeth. When Tooru falters, Hajime bites up the line of his jaw and takes in one earlobe in his mouth briefly, before talking right into Tooru’s ear.

“ _Harder_ ,” he breathes, scarcely recognizing his own voice, so steeped in lust it was, “You wanted to make me forget everyone else who’d ever touched me, yeah?”

Tooru drives in deep again, pushing into Hajime all the way to the hilt and Hajime groans with how _full_ he feels.

“I do,” Tooru answers, his voice raspy.

“Wanted me to remember nothing but you, hm?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanted to make me scream, right?”

“ _Fuck yes_ ,”

Hajime, still reeling from the latest thrust – fast and brutal, almost vicious – tightens his ankles around Tooru’s waist and scores the shell of his ear with teeth.

“Then fuck me _harder_ ,” he tells him, “Make it so I can’t walk for a _week_ without remembering this, without remembering you inside me, like this-”

The words are swallowed up by a desperate gasp of pleasure Hajime makes, all sticky with want, when Tooru obliges and thrusts in hard and fast, angling into him in such a way that every stroke sent little shocks of pleasure reverberating through his being. Hajime moves up against him, matching the pace exactly and utterly uncaring of how rough he’s being with himself – because he sure as _hell_ is going to feel this come morning.

And then Tooru brings his attempts to level the playing field to a swift close when he lets go of Hajime’s knee and takes a hold of his cock instead.

“Fuck, _Tooru,_ ” Hajime moans at the overload of sensation – the hot slide of the length inside him, pressing against the prostrate with every other thrust and then the curl of Tooru’s fingers, palming him insistently – his toes curling.

Tooru doesn’t let up; if anything, he just doubles his efforts, and he fucks into Hajime like it’s the only thing he knows, times his strokes around Hajime’s cock with each thrust and Hajime can make only a token attempt at meeting Tooru’s hips each time.

“You feel _so_ good.” Tooru praises in a raw voice, whispering it into the side of Hajime’s neck.

Hajime was shaking, his legs were tensing up in anticipation as was his abdomen and that’s how Hajime knew that it wasn’t long now. He opened his eyes – he didn’t even realize he’d closed them – and watched Tooru move over him, feeling helpless as he did so because of how _perfect_ Tooru looked; with his hair mussed and sweaty, a faint flush on his skin and his face screwed up in utter concentration, the kind that Hajime knew was reserved for matches, before he was up to serve and the opposing team had physically stopped the momentum with a time-out, but Tooru was just concentrating, focusing on nothing but the single minded thought of nailing that one serve _perfectly_.

It’s too much. Everything is too _much_.

He reaches up to curl his fingers into the back of Tooru’s head and he pulls him down for a kiss. “I’m close,” he tells him, whispers into his mouth like a prayer.

Tooru hums against his lips, licking them once and making Hajime shiver.

“Come for me, Hajime.” He says softly, then thrusts into him once, twice, pulls on his cock and finishes the stroke with a twist at the end, and then he is crashing, falling, convulsing with intense pleasure and his back is arching off the futon and pressing closer to Tooru as he comes all over Tooru’s fingers and clenches around him. He moans Tooru’s name into his mouth as he strokes him through his orgasm, practically shaking in the aftermath.

Tooru is about to withdraw when he sees that Hajime is done but Hajime puts a stop to that by refusing to unlock his ankles.

Tooru blinks down at him questioningly. Hajime only has enough energy to give him a blissed out smile.

“Did you forget the part where you wanted to come inside me?”

Tooru’s eyes widen and his hips thrust forward involuntarily into Hajime’s oversensitive body. Hajime makes a soft noise before he can stop himself and that makes Tooru pause.

“Don’t stop,” Hajime tells him, “Come on, use me, I don’t even care- just come inside me, Tooru.”

Tooru groans and he’s not keeping a rhythm when he drives into Hajime this time; his hips are stuttering out of time, just plunging into Hajime with just one aim.

“Hajime,” Tooru calls out to him, all raw and utterly _wrecked_ , “Hajime, fuck, you’re so good, just so _perfect_ -”

Hajime kisses him, swallows the praises from his mouth, and Tooru kisses back desperately, and it takes another couple of thrusts before Tooru is wrenching back, moaning out Hajime’s name as he releases into him, warm and sticky. That Tooru is a picture when he climaxes is hardly a surprise – he looks practically otherworldly as he shudders and arches over Hajime, mouth open around Hajime’s name, head falling back to expose the line of that long, graceful neck, the sweep of his fringe sticking to his forehead and he looks so, so beautiful, Hajime can hardly believe he is even real.

“I love you,” he blurts, just as Tooru carefully withdraws from Hajime and falls on his side beside him, all boneless and spent, “I love you so fucking much, Tooru; sometimes it feels like I’m going out of my mind with it.”

Tooru stares at him in shock before his face scrunches in what can only be the start of tears. He weakly punches Hajime’s side in response.

“How is it that _I’m_ the one who just fucked you that hard and you’re still the one who gets to be so cool?”

Hajime blinks.

“That’s because you’re never cool.” He deadpans, “Obviously.”

“Shut up,” Tooru laughs, watery, and leans close to kiss the tip of Hajime’s nose, “I was going to say that first, you know.”

“I already said it first, by the way.”

“I meant _now_.” Tooru rolls his eyes and then presses his forehead to Hajime’s, utterly uncaring of the sweat, and meets his eyes with a determination, “And, listen carefully – I love you, Iwaizumi Hajime, and I have since before I even understood what it was. I was stupid about it, I hurt you over it and I am so glad that I couldn’t break you. You are the strongest person I know, the most beautiful person I know, both inside and out. I need you more than you will ever know, and I am not leaving this time, unless you decide you don’t want me anymore. So don’t doubt this, please; don’t ever doubt us, Hajime.”

And then Hajime is crying, tears leaking down his face because his heart feels so _full_ and he doesn’t know what to do with all these emotions swirling inside of him. Tooru just soothes him… rather, tries to, his own voice stuttering and hiccupping – because, of the two of them, Tooru was the one who cried too easy – and Hajime can’t really tell who’s tears are whose.

Tooru prods him eventually – after their tears have dried up and Hajime is laying there, perilously close to sleep, despite the gross stickiness within him – and drags him into the bathroom despite his protests, fervently promising to not do a thing. He doesn’t and he just cleans up Hajime, washing him down in the shower – except there _is_ a brief moment, when Tooru is two fingers deep inside of Hajime, getting out all the cum, and expresses the desire to eat out Hajime the next time and Hajime’s cock gives a hearty twitch of anticipation… which is when Hajime kicks him out.

By the time he comes back into the bedroom, shivering for a towel – because he’d been too fucked out for any forethought – Tooru is already dressed up, having pulled on the sweatshirt Hajime had loaned him and wearing the pajamas Hajime had been wearing before. He’s cleaned up the room and changed the sheets on the futon too, and he comes bounding over to wrap Hajime into a towel, cooing and pressing affectionate little kisses to his skin the entire time he’s scrubbing him dry.

“In the futon.” He says once he’s done, pushing Hajime towards it with a soft tap to his backside – his very _sore_ backside – and Hajime gingerly limps in that direction before frowning.

“What, don’t I get clothes?”

“Nope!” Tooru chirps and Hajime just rolls his eyes and sinks into his futon tiredly, drained and exhausted.

He’s almost about to fall asleep when the sheets shift briefly and then there is something warm pressing into his back.

“Turn around, Iwa-chan,” Tooru nudges his ear insistently; “Want to see your face.”

Hajime opens his eyes and obeys, shifting and wincing each time he did. Tooru had turned out the lights at some point, but his warm smile is practically luminous in the dim ambient light that is leaking in through the windows. Hajime can’t help it – he smiles back and tucks his head into Tooru’s nape, inhaling the scent on warm skin. Tooru throws an arm over Hajime’s back and pulls him closer, wedging in one naked thigh between his legs, Tooru having taken off his clothes again.

Tooru nibbles on Hajime’s neck lightly, sweetly, making Hajime shudder.

“I’m so happy right now,” he murmurs into Hajime’s skin as if letting him into a secret, like he used to when they were children and they were sleeping over at one of their houses.

Hajime leans back and meets Tooru’s eyes in the dark, before fitting his mouth over Tooru’s in a chaste kiss, slow and unhurried and warm. Tooru responds back, equally as languid and lazy, and they fall asleep like that, whispering silent confessions into each other’s skin, the only two people in the world.

*

Hajime wakes up in the morning in increments, his body sore and tired but he is utterly content all the same. Tooru is warm around him, having tucked his face into Hajime’s chest sometime during the night and one arm draped over him. Hajime basks in it – 5:25 am on a cold Thursday morning, his fingers tangled in soft brown air, his skin shivering from the warm exhales the body next to him makes.

 _Right here, I was happy_ , he tells himself, memorizing everything about this moment.

Tooru shifts, grumbles in sleep and presses closer to Hajime, his arm around Hajime’s waist tightening. Hajime runs his fingers through Tooru’s hair and Tooru yawns widely, blinking blearily as he wakes up and takes in his surroundings. Upon realizing where he is, Tooru makes a happy noise and looks up at Hajime and Hajime laughs fondly.

“Morning kiss, _now_ ,” Tooru demands in his sleep-rough voice, sticking out his lips expectantly.

Hajime laughs again, beholding the petulance on Tooru’s face for five long seconds before obliging and kissing him chastely.

“Not a dream.” Tooru says, awed, his eyes fluttering open when Hajime draws back.

Hajime smiles.

“Not a dream.” He replies, sliding their noses together briefly, before leaning in to touch his mouth to Tooru’s again.

*


	4. Coda

 

*

Hajime follows Tooru’s directions to stretch and is almost impressed by how thorough Tooru is now, not daring to cut corners like he would have in high school and they were playing a regular pickup game.

Of course, he is shameless when he helps Hajime stretch out – touching inappropriately and whispering filthy things into his ears; things like _do you have any idea what I want to do to you when you’re bent over like that?_ – and he’s incorrigible, disregarding every last threat Hajime makes.

Hajime walks into the Tokyo Metropolitan Gym’s famed Orange Court, the same one they never managed to get to in high school. He looks around, awed by the enormity of it, given that was far larger than the Sendai City Gymnasium.

“Like it?” Tooru says, tugging on Hajime’s arm, “I managed to get it for an hour tonight; the janitors really like me.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Hajime huffs, eyes taking in everything.

Tooru quickly brushes his lips against Hajime’s cheek to get him to look, and when Hajime does, he gets a volleyball in his face.

“Let’s see how much you’ve forgotten, hm?”

Hajime pelts the volleyball back into Tooru’s face immediately.

“I haven’t forgotten the important things, obviously,” Hajime replies, flippant, sticking his tongue out when Tooru makes a face at him.

“Come _on_ , we don’t have much time.” Tooru says then, “Let me toss for you already.”

“Fine, fine,” Hajime rolls his eyes, not betraying his nervousness.

This was the first time in five years that he’d stepped into a volleyball court, five years since he’d last even touched a volleyball. He’s scared that it will all be wrong now, that he’s outgrown it, replaced it with dance. It’s so stupid and irrational but, well, volleyball is as much a part of him as Tooru – he’d played it for most of his youth, burned for it even – and he doesn’t want this one common thread, the biggest of them, to have snapped.

Tooru looks at him for a long moment, then crosses the space between them in one stride.

“You’ll be fine.” He says, his voice ringing with conviction, “You will be, I promise you.”

Hajime blinks once before a soft smile insinuates itself on his face.

“Yeah,” he nods, “Okay.”

Tooru presses the volleyball in his hands, then goes to stand by one of the nets that were usually set up for the National team’s practices, and he waits. Hajime stares at the swirl of familiar colors – red, green and white – and feels the weight of the ball in his hands. The sensation teases at the edges of his conscience and Hajime stares at the grooves and dips of the ball, rolls it between his fingers a couple of times, as he walks to the back of the court.

He meets Tooru’s eyes when he’s in position and Tooru lifts his lips in an encouraging smile. Hajime ducks his head and closes his eyes to center himself, inhaling for five beats and exhaling for three, exactly the way he used to prep for a serve.

He throws the ball in Tooru’s direction and stares at the wonky trajectory – but it’s okay, because Tooru is coming there to meet it – and, just as he is running up, it all slams back into place, like a muscle memory. Before he knows it, he’s already made the jump, he’s already smacked the ball down the court in a straight spike, he’s already landed heavily and fallen to the floor from the shock of it.

He turns to Tooru for approval but Tooru is just staring at the ball, gobsmacked.

“Was that in or…?” Hajime prompts, making to stand up but Tooru then grips his forearms and forcefully hauls him to his feet. Hajime feels a little alarmed at being manhandled, but it’s hard to protest when Tooru kisses him soundly, pulls at his chin to get him to open up and then he’s delving in with tongue and teeth, something like a storm – coming in hard and fast and utterly uncaring for anyone who may be a witness.

He pulls back, lips wet and a flush sitting high on his cheeks, his eyes glittering.

“Beautiful,” he tells Hajime and Hajime doesn’t know if he’s talking about the spike or Hajime himself. Hajime just has enough brainpower to blink dumbly when Tooru hands him another volleyball and comes to stand in his original position.

“Again.” He demands, staring at Hajime with a gaze that burns.

Forty-five minutes later, Tooru drags a sweaty and bewildered Hajime into one of the private changing rooms, shoves him into the shower and strips him out of his clothes with surprising efficiency, then he presses Hajime’s back against the wall and works him with one hand, bluntly biting into Hajime’s neck and telling him that he was _perfect, so goddamned perfect_. Hajime comes right as Tooru is sucking a bruise onto the side of his neck, wiping all doubts – amongst other things – from his mind.

Later, when they’re wrapped up in each other in Tooru’s bed, Tooru noses his shoulder.

“So, when do I schedule our next practice?” he asks, as if it’s perfectly obvious.

Hajime just taps the back of his head softly, because of course; _of course_ volleyball would be exactly as easy and effortless as being with Tooru was.

He leans in to kiss the shell of Tooru’s ear, watching him shudder at the delicate touch.

“Next week sound okay?”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!
> 
> This is the first time I've actually completed something this long and not abandoned it midway. To be honest, the story was supposed to be a lot shorter, around 15k~ words and I certainly wasn't expecting it to pan out like this. This is also the first time I've actually written proper smut and, let me tell you - that shit is hard to write. Capturing and holding on to the mood is tough as hell. Thankfully, I managed to do so and... that's why we ended up with approximately 10k words of mediocre pornography. Oh joy.
> 
> I have a couple more things I want to write out for this 'verse, but from different perspectives. The problem with a single POV story is that we never get to see things from the outside - which is precisely the reason why the final scene ended up being so goddamned _long_. Kuroo is one of the perspectives I'd really like to write out - which is kind of funny, since Kuroo wasn't supposed to be a part of the story in the first place and he basically wrote himself in. I'm still not sure if I nailed his character or not, but oh well. 
> 
> Kudos to you if you've read this all the way through! Thanks again for reading!


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